


it's not always rainbows and butterflies

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Dimension, College AU, Feuding Roommates, M/M, Party Animal!Bucky, Steve Rogers is OCD, Stucky - Freeform, Tumblr otpprompt, and we hate each other, artist!Steve Rogers, sort of, we woke up married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine your OTP as rivals. One day, their arguing gets them in trouble with a witch/sorcerer/etc. who sends them to an alternate dimension to get along. Plot Twist: in this alternate dimension, your OTP is a married couple.</p><p>Bonus: when Persons A and B get a chance to return, one or both of them hesitate. Whether they decide to stay or not depends on you.</p><p>Taken from a Tumblr otpprompt.</p><p> </p><p>author's note: title taken from She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Teachable Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing college!verse. It doesn't matter what pairing. I originally wanted to do this as a long one-shot, but I have zero patience when it comes to wanting to post something when I feel like I've hit a stopping point. "Oh, boy, let's share it NOW!!!"
> 
> So. Another WIP. Don't kill me.

_Yesterday:_

"Sonofa... _why?_ " Bucky growled at the yellow sticky note on the mini-fridge in their shared dorm room, scrawled in his annoying roomie's handwriting. He ripped it off the door and stared down at it incredulously.

_I threw out your orange juice. It was starting to smell funny. - S._

"I just bought it yesterday," Bucky fumed under his breath, scrubbing his face with his palm. "Right. Okay..." Sweat was cooling on his cheeks and he felt lightheaded from his near-sprint back to their room. He exhaled through his nose and leaned against his desk to let the room stop spinning. He crumpled the note and aimed it at the wastebasket but missed.

He pawed at his hip pocket, managing on the third attempt to tug his phone out, fingers shaking as he texted Nat.

_You home? Please tell me you have something sweet..._ He sank into his chair, still shaking and pissed off at Steve, feeling his blood sugar drop another point. ****. Even a sip of funny smelling orange juice would have set him right...

Nat's return text was almost automatic. _I'm here. Where r U?_

_My room. Crashing. Please tell me you have candy or something..._

He saw the little "typing" bubble on his screen. Then, _On my way._ Thank God for Natasha Romanoff. Bucky's mouth felt so pasty and dry as he rested his head on his desk. He was going to _kill_ Steve Rogers whenever he came back. He tried to breathe evenly through his nose, feeling the air bounce back into his face from his desk blotter.

He was groggy when he heard Nat's sharp, urgent knock on his door. "James!"

"Just a sec," he grunted as he got up, but he misjudged his legs, wobbled and almost tripped over the wastebasket, but he made it to the door, jerking it open. Her eyes widened as she barged in, yanking him along with her back to his desk.

"Sit." She popped open the can of Sprite. "Drink." She shoved it still-cold into his shaky hand, and he took breathless, greedy gulps, ignoring the rush of fizz as it burned his sinuses. "You're all gray," she tsked. "What happened? You don't have an emergency stash anywhere?"

"Left my wallet in my gym bag, like an idiot," he admitted. Which answered her question preemptively about why he didn't stop at the dining hall, the student bookstore or the coffee stand on the way back to the dorms.

"You've got to keep a stash, genius. You're not superhuman. Tic-Tacs. Kool-Aid. ANYTHING." She reached out and wiped his sweaty brow with her palm. "And Steve's not here. You were all alone. Doofus."

" _I'm_ the doofus?" he argued back. He was still clutching his soda possessively, and she nodded for him to drink some more. "He threw out my juice. He's always doing that ***t. Mr. Clean strikes again." His roommate was compulsively, anally neat. It drove Bucky out of his mind. Nothing annoyed him more than finding his own stuff chucked onto his bed if any of it crept onto Steve's side of the room. There might as well have been a line of masking tape down the middle of the rug.

He was pleasant enough about it. Those little harmless smiles coupled with "Didn't want you to lose this" or "Just wanted to give this back. You left it on the floor" were common the first couple of weeks that they both moved in. Slowly, though, they graduated to outright nagging from Steve and Bucky's constant eye rolls and exasperated breaths. Bucky often escaped down the hall to Clint's room, which he kept unabashedly messy, and thankfully, his roommate, Logan, was just as much of a slob. If the dorm gave off the weird stench of dirty socks, Old Spice, and stale pizza boxes, Bucky wouldn't judge them.

Bucky wondered how they even ended up paired together in the first place when the residence hall was making their selections. Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers had _absolutely nothing_ in common. Music tastes, spiritual beliefs (Steve was a devout Catholic, Bucky's parents were Jewish but seldom went to temple), favorite foods, personality (Steve was painfully shy around new people, especially girls, which Bucky found amusing to watch), taste in friends (Steve hung out with the "artsy" crowd; Bucky was a jock) and social habits, in every way, these two boys were on opposite ends of the spectrum and flipping each other off from a distance.

Steve vacillated between sequestering himself in the dorm and escaping to the library when he wasn't in the campus arts building. Bucky almost felt guilty when his own friends came calling, banging on their door at all hours of the night to drag him to parties and kick-backs. Steve offered bland - and mildly snarky - responses whenever Brock, Dum-Dum (Tim Dugan, but the name stuck after the beer pong incident), or Clint showed up and parked themselves on Steve's bed or in his desk chair to wait for Bucky and nag him to finish getting ready. Every time they showed up, it was the same; Steve returned their heckling offers to join them with tight little smiles: "Maybe next time. Kinda busy." Bucky lied to himself that Steve couldn't hear them through the door, muttering and guffawing once they swept out of the room, kidding Buck about his wet blanket of a roommate.

Then there was that goofy way that Steve acted like the fun police when Bucky _did_ go out with the guys. He grumbled at Bucky to remember his keys, wallet and phone, of _course_ nagging him that "I'd rather not hear you banging down the door in the wee hours if you lock yourself out. Some of us have to get up in the morning." Steve was a morning person, after a fashion, while Bucky dropped and rescheduled all of his classes mid-semester that started before 11AM. Bucky ignored Steve's offers of rides home if he got stranded; Bucky enjoyed the cold sting of air rushing over his skin after a thirsty night when he hopped rides home on the pedi-cabs downtown, even if he did yak that one time...

It just wasn't working.

Bucky didn't need Steven Grant Rogers - even his name sounded like a buzzkill, like mayonnaise spread on Wonder Bread - to bust his chops or to "keep him in line."

What bugged him, though, was Natasha's insistence that Steve "meant well." For reasons Bucky couldn't fathom, she had a soft spot for him, actually being pretty civil to him, remarkable when you considered she was only civil to a precious few people. The rest of the feeble masses received her thousand-mile stare and her brittle, clipped tones, her body language screaming _Ain't nobody got time fo' dat._ For his own part, Steve was unfailingly polite to Natasha, vacating his desk chair every time she entered the room, offering her gum, and frankly, fawning all over her.

Sometimes, they shared this little, weird knowing look, and just... ew. No. _No._ Bucky scolded his brain for even taking him there. Even though Rogers...

...wasn't hard on the eyes. He wasn't. It was just the principle of the thing. No one that physically attractive should be able to annoy Bucky that much every time he opened his mouth.

And the thing is, on move-in day, Bucky had no sooner arrived and begun unpacking his bed sheets from their plastic packaging while his younger sister Becca prowled around the halls, ignoring his parents' scold not to go peeking into the other dorm rooms, when Rogers showed up, sweating slightly but not so much as a hair out of place, wearing one of the university's tee shirts he must have bought while he was still touring schools.

For a moment, Bucky's heart skipped a beat, and he felt his hands grow clammy, and his mouth go dry. He cleared his throat as Steve - wheat blond, eyes blue as marbles, tanned and _huge_ \- enter the room, hefting his Rubbermaid trunk and a large duffle bag. He was alone, looking flustered that Bucky had already arrived, but he gave him a winning smile.

 

"Looks like you beat me here," he offered, automatically extending his hand. "Steve. Rogers."

"Barnes. Bucky. And this is my fan club." He nodded to his parents, then looped his arm around Becky's neck in their customary headlock. His sister was already giving Steve puppy dog eyes, and she was kicking Bucky to urge him to let go, but he enjoyed giving her a hard time.

"Bucky?" The Ken doll's lips quirked for a moment, but he recovered quickly. "Cool." His handshake was firm, like he was walking into an interview. "Your profile called you James."

"Uh-uh. Just don't," he pleaded, giving him a flat look. Steve nodded, a light going on in his eyes.

"Fair enough." It turned out to be the last time that Steve made any concerted effort _not to annoy Bucky._

*

Bucky was quiet when Steve returned, but his eyes balefully tracked his movements around the dorm. "Hey," he offered casually. Bucky pretended not to hear him, earbuds plugged in, and he turned up the volume on his iPod to indecent levels. The message was clear; Steve huffed as he set down his portfolio and began to rummage through it. "Okay," he muttered. "My day was fine. Thanks for asking, Buck..."

Bucky simmered as he scrolled through his term paper, pointedly unwrapping a red Starburst and cramming it into his mouth. He tracked his roommate's movements around the tiny dorm but glanced away every time Steve's eyes swung his way. Steve withdrew his large Bristol drawing pad and his pack of pencils, shading stump, and kneaded eraser and began to work on his assignment. Bucky quickly regretted the hostile reception he gave him - slightly, anyway - as his curiosity nagged at him. He longed to hover over Steve's shoulder and watch him draw.

It was a guilty pleasure of Bucky's, but he'd never admit it. The slender green pencils rested comfortably in his large hands, and despite his tendency to be a neat freak, his fingernails were often rimmed in charcoal or graphite dust. The ramrod-straight shoulders relaxed when he drew, and his features settled into calm repose, a tiny divot occasionally appearing between his sandy brows.

It was cute. And...yeah. It annoyed Bucky that he _found_ it cute. Steve wasn't his usual stuffy, uptight self when he drew. And Bucky was more technical than creative, falling back on the old chestnut of "I can't even draw stick figures." Bucky knew he earned Steve's look of goodnatured disgust with that claim, followed by "Um, yeah, you _can_ ," those four words _loaded_ with judgment. Or so Bucky thought.

Bucky gave Steve the silent treatment until he got back from dinner.

"Did I do something to offend you? You'd say it if I did, right?" Bucky exhaled heavily through his nose, steeling himself. His tone was calm, but Steve's expression looked dubious, his posture speaking volumes: _I'm gonna disagree vehemently with whatever you have to say right now, even though you have a right to say it._

"Steve. You threw away my juice."

"Geez... Bucky, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd miss it. It was already expired and it smelled funny-"

"I'm not trying to be a jerk," Bucky interrupted, "but next time, replace it. _Please._ "

"Okay. If it's that big of a deal-"

"It is." Bucky's voice was brittle. "I'm not trying to be a jerk about this, Rogers. I'm Type 1." Realization dawned in Steve's eyes.

"Yet you go out drinking every week?" he accused.

That wasn't the reaction Bucky expected. He found himself staring at his roommate through a haze of scarlet.

"My blood sugar bottomed out, and I had nothing to replace it with when I got home, and you're gonna preach to me?"

"Maybe someone _should_ ," Steve shot back, and color rose into the crowns of his cheeks. "You seem pretty happy to keep putting yourself at risk! I'm sorry I threw away your juice," Steve told him, but Bucky was _fuming._ "But, Bucky? You're not easy to live with."

And _that_ was how the fight started.

*

"I can't stand him. No. Wait. That's an understatement. I hate my roommate's guts. Who in their right mind in the resident office paired us off?" Bucky plowed his hand through his hair, rumpling it considerably. "Seriously. Whatever they were sniffing, I wish they would give me some. Might help me to put up with him..."

"Be nice," Natasha chided, reaching out to lightly swat him.

"No! I _am_ nice," Bucky argued. “I’d have to be to keep putting up with him. I swear, it’s like he’s never had to live with anyone else before! When I want to sleep in, he’s up and banging around at the crack of dawn-“

“You keep missing your first periods. You should be getting up with him,” she accused. He scowled. She raised perfectly waxed eyebrows in response. “You should,” she shrugged.

“He keeps acting like he has to babysit me, Nat. It’s worse now since he threw out my juice.” Steve had done an about-face and stocked their room with granola bars, powdered Kool-Aid, packets of crackers (okay, Steve, how did you know Cheez-Its were my favorite, Bucky thought bitterly) and nagged him constantly about his energy drinks, threatening to throw out his Red Bulls. Self-help diet books on controlling Type 1 diabetes showed up mysteriously on Bucky’s shelf. Steve was sickeningly sweet –in Bucky’s opinion, anyway- whenever Bucky’s mom came to visit for the weekend. Bucky hustled his mother and sister out the door while Winifred was chatting with Steve, admiring his sketches and flipping through the paperback copy of “Sugar Busters.”

“Mom, _c’mon!_ ” he whined.

“Do you have any plans for the day, Steve? Do you go home on the weekends much?”

“Not…really,” he told her, flushing slightly and rubbing his nape. “I have a lot to keep me busy.” He nodded to his hamper. “Laundry. Other stuff.”

“You should grab dinner with us!” Becca gushed, and Bucky lightly kicked her. Becca took umbrage, yanking a lock of his hair at his nape, making Bucky hiss.

“That’s enough, you two,” Winifred warned. Steve’s lips twitched. His eyes looked wistful for a moment.

“We’ll get out of your way, Rogers,” Bucky insisted, his voice flat. Leave it to the Boy Scout to make him look bad…

*

Bucky continued to fill Natasha’s ear. Her sympathy for him was tempered with amusement and mild disgust. She told him over breakfast, “Things could be worse. You could be kinder to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. He stabbed up a forkful of scrambled eggs and crammed them into his mouth. “Hope I get an apartment next year.”

“You’ll be broke. Every rental around here costs a grip.”

“Don’t care. Long as I don't hafta live with Steve Rogers.”

“There are worse people you could live with, James. And Steve’s _stable._ A guy who returns library books on time is a guy who won’t leave you hanging paying his half of the electric bill.”

“Please,” Bucky scoffed, not wanting to admit she had a point.

“He’s trying pretty hard to be nice to you.”

“I don’t even know if it qualifies as “trying.” His “niceness” just kinda runs on autopilot. It’s sickening. And scary.”

“You’re terrible. Here you are, sitting here venting and spewing about poor Steve. He’s _good_ for you. You _hate_ things that are good for you.”

“Do not,” he grumbled.

“Do so.” Nat glanced toward the entrance of the dining hall, toward the cashier at the table scanning meal cards. “Speaking of which, whatever happened between you and _him?_ ” She motioned to the tall, athletic-looking guy in ice-blue Under Armour with platinum blond hair and arrogant eyes. Bucky followed her stare and immediately ducked down.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself! He might come over here!”

“Ah,” she mused. “That tells me all I need to know…”

“Natasha,” Bucky hissed, hating the smirk that twisted her lips. “So it wasn’t one of my better decisions. It was the vodka.”

“You always blame it on the vodka, James. After the first few dozen times, you have to man up and call it bad judgment.” Bucky turned his back on the sight of his fling from a few weeks prior. Pietro flirted with Bucky at the mixer over games of pool and beer pong. They’d had fun. Pietro was a biter, but Bucky could work around that.

…but in the light of the day, Pietro bored him to tears. He kept texting him links to videos on YouTube of really stupid things like people high on dental anesthetics or clips from _Jackass_. You could only watch so many guys grinding a rail get hit in the nards.

“Is he still sending you Jackass clips?”

“Yes,” he groaned, scrubbing his face with his palm.”

“Do we need to have the talk again?”

“NO!”

*

 

Brock didn’t just knock on doors; he pounded and banged, despite the RA’s rules about “the right to quiet” in the dorms. The guy just didn’t care, and this time he jerked Bucky out of a drooling nap, making him forget for a minute a)where he was, b)what day it was, and c) who was tearing down the building, and why didn’t anyone come back for him? Dimly, he thought to himself, _Steve would have come back for me_.

He dismissed the idea when he heard Brock’s loud, growling “Let me in, douche bag!”

“Indoor voice, asshole!” Bucky growled back as he yanked open the door. Brock grinned as he barged inside. He had his gym duffle slung over his shoulder and dangled a bottle of sports drink from his fingers.

“Close your mouth when you sleep, dude. You slobbered all over yourself.” Bucky noticed belatedly that his whole cheek was chilled and damp; he mopped at it with the cuff of his sleeve.

“You woke me up,” he groused back. Bucky counted how many people would miss Brock if he “accidentally” shoved him down the back stairs. He was coming up empty…

His choice in friends needed a little work, much like his choice in one-night stands.

“You were supposed to meet Clint and me for a circuit at the weight room,” Brock complained. Bucky squinted at his clock. The red digital display accused him of his flakery, showing him he was supposed to meet Brock over a half an hour ago.

“Fell asleep in my last class. Must’ve blanked it. Sorry.”

“Well, get your sorry ass to the gym, then! Up an’ at ‘em!” Brock clapped him on the shoulder, and Bucky winced.

“Lemme get changed.”

“And wash your face. And brush your teeth, Barnes, your breath stinks!” Brock went to Steve’s desk and sat in his chair.

“Don’t,” Bucky told him without thinking. “He doesn’t like people messing with his stuff.”

“Who’s messing with anything? Am I supposed to be afraid of Rogers?” Brock huffed. “What’s he gonna do? Rogers’ll never grow a pair, Jimmy.” There was the hated nickname. “I do what I want!” He demonstrated this by rummaging in his desk drawer. Bucky glanced quickly at its contents. Everything was neat and organized (no surprise), and he had a small Staples store in there, with every writing implement imaginable (because Steve drew, so there were some sweet Rapidograph pens and Copic markers in there, too, kneaded erasers, you name it). Brock hummed, raising his craggy brows as he took a small vinyl eraser and pocketed it.

“Put it back, Brock!” Bucky snapped.

“I’m just messin’ around!”

“Just… just don’t,” Bucky ordered. 

“Go. Make yourself presentable. You’d scare small children like you are now, Jimmy.” Bucky gave him a dirty look as he left, grabbing his shorts and a fresh tank, shower caddy and wash cloth. He examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, skin pasty, dark circles ringing his eyes, and he needed a shave. There was a pillow crease in his cheek and his skin was chapped from the drool. “Ugh,” he muttered. Brock wasn’t lying.

Minutes later, after he worked a few miracles with his face scrub, razor and Listerine, Bucky returned to his room to a sight that made panic hit him like a dash of ice water. “What the fuck are you _doing?_ Are you high?”

“What? I’m just looking at ‘em,” Brock argued as he flicked Steve’s large drawing dispassionately with his finger. Bucky knew the vellum paper cost a _grip_. “Not bad,” he added. “I just figured he was jerking around with art because he wasn’t smart enough to pick a real major.”

“Dude… just. _No_. You don’t mess around with his sketches, they’re like the Holy Grail.” Because that was the one thing that made Steve break his own rule about staying up all night. Some nights, Bucky would wake up in the middle of the night – usually to stagger to the bathroom to take a leak after a bender – to find Steve bathed in a puddle of light from his desk lamp, half-slumped with his arm crooked around the corners of his drawing pad, pencil scratching lightly as he shaded his subject. His face was pensive, features slack, and he was focused on nothing but the lines and forms taking shape beneath his hands. Bucky would hurry past him, guilty about disturbing him when he was in that zone, but Steve would barely spare him a glance. Those mornings after, Steve would take a page out of Bucky’s book and slap the snooze alarm more than once, and he would creep off to breakfast with his hoodie pulled up over his tousled blond hair in lieu of actually _combing_ it. But his sketches would be tucked lovingly into his leather portfolio with care before he wove his way through the crowd toward the Humanities building.

Bucky’s warnings landed on deaf ears. Brock had cracked open his bottle of blue Power-Ade and was slugging down half of it while he thumbed through the vellum pad. Bucky’s pulse raced and unease swept over his flesh as he watched Brock’s throat working the fluid down, continuing to callously drink. He scratched at the page with his fingernail, and Bucky _really_ started to panic at the threat of him smudging Steve’s perfect shading. It was a woman’s portrait, meticulously, lovingly drawn, and Bucky reached for Brock’s bottle.

“At least don’t drink that over it!”

“What’s your damage? It’s fine, I’ve got it! I’m not gonna get anything on-“ 

“BROCK!”

“BACK OFF, BUCKY! It’s fine!” Brock kept feinting away from Bucky’s grabby hands as he tried to snatch the bottle away, in an effort to protect the vulnerable, pristine sketch.

“NO, IT’S NOT! GET RID OF THE DRINK!”

They were both startled by the sharp click of Steve’s key in the lock and the sudden swish of the door. Steve strode in, thumb paused over his smart phone screen. Brock, who had been tipped back in Steve’s desk chair, abruptly jerked himself upright just as Bucky’s hand darted out to grab the drink again, and he managed to pry it out of Brock’s grip…

…and then dropped it as it slipped from his own fingers. Bucky watched the blue, salty liquid slosh in a gleaming ripple from the clear plastic neck of the bottle.

“What the…?” Steve’s voice was stunned and incredulous at the edge of the doorway, but Bucky felt as though everything was happening in slow motion, as the bottle dropped, it’s shadow falling and spreading across the vellum surface before the bottle itself made impact, delivering ten ounces of cruel electrolytes as the final insult from an unwelcome guest. Bucky watched in horror as the Power-Ade saturated the sketch pad.

Ruined.

The portrait was ruined. And all Brock Rumlow could concern himself with was his dripping jersey.

“ _Fuck._ Nice job, Barnes. I told you I _had_ it,” he accused.

“ _Brock._ ” Bucky’s eyes were saucer-wide as it hit him that Brock was blaming _him_. Bucky’s eyes flitted to Steve, who had gone pale and stiff. A muscle in his jaw was working, and he looked… Bucky didn’t even want to try to describe the play of emotions on that face. He wasn’t looking at the Eagle Scout.

This… was John Wick after he buried his puppy.

“Sorry, man, he knocked it outta my hand,” Brock began as he rose from the chair, still holding the sketch pad. Bucky felt slightly sick, then startled as Steve snapped out his hand and snatched the pad away.

“Nobody told you to go through my stuff,” Steve said, to Brock, but his gaze pinned Bucky, full of blue fire.

“I didn’t tell him to,” Bucky attempted.

“Sure you didn’t.”

“Look, it’s just a spill-“ Brock interjected.

“Get the fuck out.” Steve’s voice was cold and hard. 

Brock huffed, shooting Bucky his best “Is this guy kidding?” look, but Steve jerked open the door.

“Get. _Out._ Brock.”

“Pfft… won’t even let a guy try to apologize,” Brock muttered, and his eyes almost looked contrite.

“Might wanna try _harder_ ,” Bucky suggested dryly.

“I’ll be at the gym,” Brock told him. “It’s not like I meant it,” he told Steve as he brushed past. He yelped as Steve flung the mostly empty bottle after him, barely missing him. “HEY!”

“Take your shit with you,” Steve barked before slamming the door thunderously, and Bucky knew the RA’s would be coming down the hall any second to give them a referral for noise, but right now, he was more worried about Steve, who at the moment was about to lose his _shit_.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky blurted out. He went to his own desk and rummaged in a drawer for a handful of fast food napkins that he’d accumulated from multiple late night trips to Taco Bell. “Can you… dry it off, or anything?” He tried to shove the crumpled napkins at Steve, but Steve held up his hand in a gesture to back off.

“Don’t worry about it, Barnes.”

“But-“

“That won’t help.” Bucky could count on one hand the number of times that Steve had raised his voice with him, and still have a finger or two left. Steve being pissed off at him wasn’t rare, but normally Bucky didn’t feel like a shitheel. 

“Steve, let me buy you a new pad. Please. I told him not to go through your drawings, I swear.”

“Yeah? Good job. You’re a real pal.” Bucky watched in horror as Steve gripped the end of the ruined sketch and tore it from the pad, and Bucky could tell that the drink had soaked through a few more of the pages – drawings – that Steve had finished. Steve took the drawing, the portrait, and crumpled it savagely, then chucked it into the wastebasket along with the other damp ones. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Steve… don’t, you don’t have to do that!”

“Yeah? Are you gonna replace the drawings? Wanna stay up all night and redo ‘em for me?” Steve’s expression was bland but his voice was still hard. “Here.” He yanked open his drawer and reached for a handful of pencils and pens. He flung them across the room, onto Bucky’s side. “Knock yourself out. I’ve gotta go to class and ask for an extension.”

Bucky’s mouth went dry, but he felt a strange pricking behind his eyes. Steve’s posture was still stiff, and his gait was uneven as he grabbed his backpack and folio and stalked out of the room.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen!” Bucky called after him. “Steve, I’m _sorry_!”

But he was gone. Bucky’s sigh was choppy, and he stared guiltily around the room at the writing implements lying around the floor, the crumpled drawings in the trash. The memory of Steve’s face, anger mingling with hurt and betrayal because his roommate was a _dick_ , chafed him and Bucky felt a hot rush of shame. Gingerly he rescued the drawings from the can and laid them on his own desk, carefully smoothing them with his hands.

“Jesus,” he muttered. The portrait had seen the most damage, and Bucky went ahead and blotted it, anyway, with the napkins, trying futilely to remove some of the blue stain. Up close, the drawing was even more beautiful. The woman in the picture was familiar, drawn from a candid photograph. Her eyes were large and clear, with generous lashes and arched brows. She had a Colgate smile, and whoever took the picture captured her when she was laughing, and Bucky realized that he was staring down at Steve’s mother. They had the same high cheekbones and wide mouth with that full lower lip, their eyes crinkled up the same way, and they shared the same essence. Bucky scrubbed his hand over his face, then went back to gently blotting it.

The attention paid to the soft curves of her face was reverent, the transitions in shading from light to dark seamless and consistent. Bucky could read her spirit, could hear her laughter as though she were in the room with him. 

And he’d let Brock get his grubby hands on this. 

The other two sketches were just as detailed in their execution; one was of a black cat with a tear in the tip of its ear and enormous pupils. Steve had an uncanny knack for drawing fur. The tag on its collar read “Liho” and Bucky could see the lighter tips of its whiskers, the pores of its muzzle, could see the light gleaming in its dark coat. The last one surprised Bucky once he had the chance to study it, smoothing out some of the creases as he went.

Because this one was of _him_.

That sneaky bastard. Bucky huffed and shook his head. Steve drew him while he was asleep, huddled under the covers, only the top half of his face visible along with his right hand, fingers slightly curled. His hair was a mad riot of dark, wavy tufts mashed against the pillow. Bucky saw the half-moon shadows of his lashes, the contours of his cheeks. His lips gleamed slightly; Bucky wondered if it was drool.

He looked vulnerable and relaxed and… safe. He was cocooned within the blankets, out like a light, and his roommate snuck a drawing of him that someone who only knew him in passing would be able to recognize in a minute. Bucky’s face grew hot.

How long would Steve have had to sit there sketching to manage this?

He back-burnered the thought as he carefully rolled the drawings together with a rubber band and tucked them into his closet for safe keeping. Bucky gathered up the drawing tools and returned them to Steve’s drawer and decided to go to the library, abandoning his original plan to go to the gym. He couldn’t deal with Brock right now.

*

 

Bucky didn’t even make an effort to argue with Nat for a change when she caught up to him by the microfiche stations. “What’d you do to poor Steve?” she hissed, poking him roughly.

“Why?” That hard little pit of shame was still taking up space in his stomach. “Did he tell you?”

“I saw him moving his stuff out of your dorm, James.” Bucky mouthed the word _Fuck_ and covered his face with his hands. “How bad was it that he wants out?”

“Brock. He showed up and went through Steve’s desk, and he ruined his drawings.”

“What was Brock doing with Steve’s drawings?” Nat murmured as she sat beside him and dug in her backpack for her notebooks and day runner.

“He was horsing around. He met me to go work out, and when I came back from cleaning myself up, he had his sketchbook out in the open. I tried to take his drink from him and dropped it all over the damned sketchpad.”

“Ouch,” she muttered. “James. That’s horrible.”

“Ya think?”

“Don’t… don’t let this happen. Don’t let it go down like this, James. You have to make this right.”

“How?” Bucky threw up his hand. “He’s already moving out, apparently. You said you saw him, right?”

“He was carrying crates of his stuff down the hall to Sam’s room.” 

Bucky frowned. “Shit. I’m getting _Wilson’s_ roommate?”

Nat shrugged. “Riley isn’t so bad.”

“He’s ROTC. They both are. They get up at the crack of dawn to go run.” Riley was a robust health nut and Bucky’s least favorite kind of morning person. “And he listens to _death metal_.”

“Steve’s art means a lot to him. I spoke to him. He’s in a bad head space right now.” Bucky fought back the spike of guilt.

“I apologized.”

“That’s not enough,” Nat told him simply.

“And now I’m stuck with Riley,” he complained bitterly.

“You were just complaining about living with Steve. Maybe the feeling’s mutual,” she suggested oh-so-helpfully.

“Yeah, but… I meant, I wanted to get away from him when I could apply for another roommate next _year_ , or get a place off-campus with a couple of guys. Not… have everybody on my floor knowing that Steve thinks I’m too much of a dick now to live with.”

Natasha’s sigh was ragged.

“James. This should be a teachable moment. You’re not letting it be.”

“I’ve gotta look up my sources,” he told her brusquely. 

“Whatever,” she snarled under her breath. “Enjoy your new arrangement, and by all means, James, keep right on thinking none of this is your fault.” She gathered up her things to go. “You deserve whatever you get.”

“Nat!” he hissed back. “Geez…” She stalked off, everything in her posture suggesting that he was hardheaded and needed to be smacked.

*

Bucky showed up at his dorm room, bracing himself as he keyed his way in after dinner. 

Riley looked up from Steve’s – from Riley’s – twin bed where he lay propped up on his pillows, reading a dog-eared copy of _The Crucible._ “Hey, roomie.”

“Hey. Riley.” Bucky hesitated before setting down his pack. The full realization of Steve’s exit hit him, making his gut roil. He gave Riley’s side of the room a cursory glance. It was excruciatingly neat, hospital corners, white glove test _clean_. Everything was in its place.

Except _Steve_.

 

“Steve’s down the hall with Sam, now. Guess you heard, huh?” Riley’s smile was halfhearted at best.

“Guess I’m the last to know,” Bucky corrected him.

“Yeah, well… I’m not much of a night owl,” Riley offered. “Since we’re starting from square one, just figured I’d mention it.”

“Okay.”

He nodded to Bucky’s box of insulin. “Diabetic?”

“Yup,” Bucky sighed. He hoped to God that Riley didn’t have an opinion on it.

“Then you probably shouldn’t drink,” the blond murmured as he flipped the page.

 

Clearly, the universe hated Bucky. That was the only explanation.

*

Nat returned to an empty dorm room, rolling her eyes briefly at her roommate’s whiteboard outside the door, scrawled in hot pink ink: _Back later! – Y_ “Later” usually meant around 3AM where Yelena was concerned. Having a roomie who was a social butterfly meant more privacy. More privacy meant more room to spread out.

Natasha plunked her backpack onto her cot and kicked her shoes into the corner before she turned the slim rod to close her mini-blinds. She rummaged through her closet and tugged out her purple Rubbermaid lidded tub, humming to herself as she opened it and pawed through the contents. She removed a small burlap sachet pouch, several candles, a long book of matches, incense, and a large, leatherbound book whose covers were richly carved in symbols. 

“Back later,” Natasha cheerfully mimicked as she placed her candles around the room and lit them, along with the incense. “Don’t hurry back,” she muttered.

Liho apparently agreed. The RA’s had never managed to catch the black short-haired cat coming and going, and Natasha and Yelena lived on the first floor. Natasha had only to open the window and let her out when she started scratching to go outside. Her familiar loved the space beneath Natasha’s bed, and once Yelena tumbled into bed, faceplanting into the pillows, Liho crept out and took her place on the other side of Natasha’s pillow, purring away and stealing Natasha’s breath, whiskers twitching against her cheeks.

Liho knew better than to disturb the candles or any of Natasha’s other casting items and charms.

“Boys are so hardheaded,” Nat murmured as she crouched with the open sachet tucked into her palm and began to shake out the black salt inside, drawing a wide, meticulous circle around the carpet. She paused and re-read the spell in her grimoire, old and familiar, one she referred back to on special occasions. She finished drawing the pentacle, sat in its center, and closed her eyes. She chanted the verse in a low, clear voice, following it with a silent prayer while the candles flickered and threw dancing shadows around the room.

“What anger and misunderstanding have torn apart, let love knit back together.”

Minutes later, candles extinguished, found Natasha letting the cat outside and hurrying to the RA’s desk to borrow the vacuum. Nat sprinkled down some Febreze before she vacuumed up the salt; it was a plausible enough explanation if Yelena asked why the rug looked so dusty…

*

Bucky’s fingers felt cold and numb, one of the first sensations he experienced as his brain came back online. He woke up without an alarm, slowly, hearing his own breathing change, and he felt his neck cramp with a slight crick. He flexed his fingers, then gradually extended the movement to his arm, which was tucked beneath his pillow, typical of when he slept on his side. He yawned gustily, hearing his jaw click, smacking his chapped lips. He wasn’t ready to function yet. The bed was so yielding and warm. The covers were heavy and thick, and he was just starting to sweat.

The arm looped around his waist jerked, fingers spasming from too little circulation, prodding Bucky fully awake. “Nnnngghh…” His tongue tasted pasty. He wriggled back against the solid body curved flush with his. Hot breath misted over his nape, and Bucky groaned in contentment. This was _nice_.

“S’your turn t’make coffee,” a sleepy baritone informed him.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open wide.


	2. Act Your Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This husband thing had its benefits, Bucky supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short. My computer died an agonizing death two weeks ago. I typed this snippet in my work Outlook Notes and on my phone. Life's a struggle, folks.

"Bucky? Could you help me find Winnie's shoes?" Steve stood bent over a squirming five-year-old in the hallway bathroom while Bucky moved around in a slight daze, going through the motions of getting ready for the day. Steve held a look of brow-furrowing, lip-biting concentration as he tugged Sarah's fine blonde hair into tidy pigtails.

Bucky had absolutely NO clue how he got here. How is this my life? The question rattled around in his brain, but the answer wasn't forthcoming. It kept getting lost in the noise of the modest two-story house that he apparently paid half the mortgage on every month.

Five- and three-year-olds weren't easily convinced of the benefits of using their indoor voices. "I want the red ones, Daddy!" the tiny brunette currently dawdling in Doc McStuffins pajamas informed him in a tone that Bucky could only describe as shrill.

"Baby, we need to get dressed-" he urged carefully, but she wasn't having it.

"I WANT THE RED SHOES!" Winnie - who bore a strong resemblance to Bucky's sister Becca at that age - threw down the small, grubby baby doll she was playing with instead of getting dressed, kicking off a screaming tirade fueled by a) the aforementioned shoes, which weren't tucked into the shoe organizer for immediate retrieval, b) Bucky's repeated insistence that she get ready for preschool, and c) that she apparently rolled out of the wrong side of the bed. Winnifred Rogers-Barnes didn't "do" mornings.

Steve muttered under his breath that she got it from her father, elbowing him with a smirk and obvious lack of sympathy. Bucky longed to smack him. In the back of his mind, Bucky heard the echoes of lectures past from his own mother, claiming that getting her son off to school in the mornings was an ongoing battle, complete with watching morning cartoons in nothing but his socks, tantrums, and hiding his mother's car keys when it was time to go to school.

Those memories alone saved Steve from Bucky's ire. Barely.

"Winnie, that's enough," Bucky told her firmly, and he tried not to laugh at the way that she glared at him like an angry kitten. "It's time to get ready."

"Don't wanna!" she pouted, emphasizing her point by leaping back onto the bed, face-first, sticking her backside up in the air like a doodle bug, and yanking the covers over herself.

"Right," Bucky muttered to himself. Time to take a different tack.

Steve looked up from twisting the hair elastics around the ends of two immaculate braids for Sarah as Bucky made his way down the hallway to the second bathroom, with Winnifred dangling upside down by her ankles, with her wild hair swishing along over her head and brushing the floor. Steve's husband's face was determined, and Steve bit back a laugh. "Ooookay..."

"Time for a shower!" Bucky announced cheerfully, because now he bought himself ten minutes to brush his own teeth and to shave. Amidst Winnie's grumbles, he ran the shower for a minute, testing it on his wrist while she squirmed in his grasp. Once she was ensconced in the tub with a shower poof, a sickeningly sweet-smelling bath gel and the small rubber basket of tub toys, Bucky had a few minutes to focus.

He was still reeling from waking up beside Steve. No, he corrected himself, from waking wrapped in his arms _like he belonged there._ Bucky wished in hindsight that he'd reacted with a little more finesse. Launching himself backward, rolling out of bed and landing on his butt probably wasn't his smoothest move. Steve eyed him with furrowed brows.

"Uh... Way to nail the dismount, Buck."

"We're... we're gonna be late," he claimed. Steve glanced at the clock, and Bucky took advantage of the distraction, hauling himself up and hightailing it out of their bedroom.

That's when he realized that he got caught up in Dorothy's tornado and woke up in Oz.

Bucky's memories of the day before - was it only yesterday? - were fleeting and fuzzy. He remembered an argument, being pinned in place by Steve's accusing eyes and burning with shame. He saw Steve's empty bed on the other side of the dorm room, desk and armoire cleaned out, empty drawers in the tiny dresser hanging open slightly from his hasty departure. Bucky recalled Riley's smile of resignation before he left Bucky alone with his thoughts, presumably to go see Sam. Bucky remembered how frustrated and bereft he felt, angry that his wish to be free of Steve Rogers as a roommate had been granted, and that he was unhappier than ever.

Waking up to his drowsy smile and tousled hair made no sense. Yet, judging from the simple platinum band around Bucky's left finger, it made _perfect_ sense.

He was married to Steve.

_Steve_.

*

The next half-hour went by too quickly and involved more nagging.

"Sarah, get me the permission slip for your field trip so I can sign it, or you won't go."

"I can't find it!"

"Look in your backpack," Steve reminded her patiently as he put a stamp on a bill envelope; Bucky pushed down the unfair thought of _Who even mailed out bills anymore?_ when he remembered the last thing Nat had ever told him about Steve. He would never have to worry about the lights going off with his "roommate."

"Winnie, come to the table. - no, put the remote down, no cartoons for you. You didn't get ready when you were supposed to." Winnie's fingertip hovered over the power button, but one _I'm not kidding_ flick of Steve's brows undid her resolve. She chucked it onto the ottoman and pouted, and Bucky _still_ wouldn't admit that she got that from him, pink rosebud mouth, glare and all.

"Bucky, take your insulin."

"In a minute," Bucky grumbled over a pan of sizzling eggs. "Let me just finish this."

“Please take it now,” Steve insisted, “so you don't forget.”

“I _won't_ forget,” Bucky shot back, trying not to look and sound mulish but failing magnificently. He thought the subject was closed as he flipped the eggs.

Steve quietly reached for the spatula, tugging it from his grip a few moments later. Bucky turned and raised his brows, meeting Steve’s tight-lipped look with impatience.

“I can finish this,” Steve told him. He nodded to the kitchen table, where Bucky’s kit of medicine and box of syringes waited for him, and before Bucky could protest any further, Steve leaned in and gave him a sweet peck, shocking Bucky into silence; that was another thing he couldn't wrap his head around. Steve. _Kissing_ him. He barely registered the feel of his mouth, warm and firm, tinged with mint toothpaste, before he nudged Bucky away from the stove. “Shot first. I’ll make you my special omelet.”

“Isn't it too early in the morning for bribes?” Bucky mused as he took out the small bottle of insulin from the case and tore open an alcohol swab. He lifted the hem of his shirt and pinched the flesh into a small roll, silently impressed that it wasn't difficult. Apparently, Steve fed him pretty well.

“Nope.” Steve dished up the girls’ plates, whistling cheerfully as he poured glasses of juice and assembled the ingredients for Bucky’s omelet. The acrid, metallic scent of the insulin pricked Bucky’s nostrils as he drew it up into the syringe; he hissed at the poke of the needle as he injected the flesh of his abdomen. Bucky put away the case and disposed of the sharp. He no sooner washed his hands and sat back down when Winnie launched herself at him, climbing into his lap and shoving a pair of red barrettes and a pink plastic comb at him. Apparently, this was his routine. Bucky managed two decent pigtails while Winnie ate, still seated on his lap. Steve mercifully placed Bucky’s cup of coffee beside him and finished preparing their omelets. Sarah managed to finish her eggs and toast without getting any of it on her clothes, and Steve stood by with napkins at the ready when it looked like she would wipe her mouth on the back of her hand or her sleeve. Bucky narrowly escaped Winnie’s blop of strawberry jam that dropped from her toast, managing to catch it with his hand before it hit his good work slacks.

Steve slid Bucky’s omelet under his nose, and Bucky huffed at the smiley face constructed out of avocado slices, orange wedges and black olives. Okay. So his husband was a goofball. Bucky was willing to overlook it when he took the first cheesy, bacon-filled bite. He made an obscene noise, and Winnie giggled. Steve quirked his brow, lips twitching.

“What?” Bucky demanded. “It’s good!” He speared a chunk of avocado, twirling a strand of melted cheese around it. He made another blissful sound when he tucked it into his mouth.

“Daddy,” Sarah chided from over the rim of her juice. “That’s not good table manners.”

“Says who?”

“Says you,” she said simply.

Right. He was supposed to be setting an example. “Well, I beg your _pardon_ ,” he offered. His la-dee-dah tone made her snort into her cup. Winnie laughed around a mouthful of toast, spraying crumbs.

“That’s enough of that,” Steve warned. Bucky took another innocent bite, sans sound effects, but he opened his mouth to flash Steve the chewed-up contents while the girls weren't looking. Steve’s facepalm was worth it.

Maybe this whole husband thing wasn't so bad…


	3. That Span Between Rush Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky realizes he doesn’t truly know his husband in this strange future. He bumps into a face from the past, and has a stunning revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This has been a long time coming. Computer difficulties, NO free time, weird family stuff, and no peace and quiet at home to write means very few, infrequent fic updates. I miss talking to you guys.
> 
> My other Stucky fics are still waiting for updates. My last chapter of Parent Pick-Up Zone got EATEN when my PC crashed. Eight pages bit the dust. (cue the sad violins)

Bucky drove to work in a daze once he kissed the girls goodbye – complete with razz-berries on their cheeks, because it was a perk of being a parent – and helped Steve buckle them in and fiddle with all the various hooks and harness straps on Winnie’s car seat. It was like playing cat’s cradle, fer cryin’ out loud…

“Daddy, give Daddy a kiss,” Sarah reminded him. 

“Oh, uh… right.” Steve’s brows drew together over his smirk.

“Yeah, what am I? Chopped liver?” Bucky leaned down toward the open driver side window and gave Steve an uncertain peck, then “mmphed” in surprise when when Steve’s hand cupped his nape and pulled him in and nipped at his lips, teasing him. Bucky’s cheeks heated up and his eyes shuttered as his husband – his _husband_ \- made him see stars. Bucky jerked back, aware that their neighbors were getting a show. He waved briefly at Mr. Lee, the gray-mustached man in a dark cardigan, watering his lawn and smirking.

“Morning,” Bucky called to him. “You’re still a bad influence,” he muttered down to Steve. The girls were giggling, and Winnie was making faces, staring at him through her fingers. It was gross watching adults kiss, of course. But Steve’s smile was smug, blue eyes twinkling.

“Work hard. Bring home the bacon,” he told him.

“You, too. Behave yourselves,” he told all three of them.

“You too, Daddy,” Sarah shot back as Steve pulled out of the driveway in the very suburban-looking BMW. Bucky wondered when he became the type of guy to tool around in a black Camry instead of a red ‘Vette.

How was this even his life?

He peered down into his wallet as he started his car, and he found a business card with his own name on it. Apparently he worked for Stark Industries as an engineer. He spoke out loud to his car’s GPS.

“Stark Industries. 1600 Stark Tower Drive.”

“Stark Industries. Estimated driving time: Ten minutes.”

Bucky hoped to heaven that he wasn’t already late.

*

 

The traffic was ridiculous; he simmered as the drivers around him forgot how to drive in the fast lane and use their signals. He attempted to listen to some music and flicked on his stereo. The most saccharine kids’ music – his Sirius display told him it was “Radio Disney” blared out at him at full volume, and he yelped, “SHIT! For the love of God!” He scanned through his stations until he found some Top Forty songs that didn’t make him want to rip his ears off his head. Okay. So, obviously the lesson he learned was that the kids ruled the radio station in his car, and to adjust the volume knob down first.

Fair enough.

He passed two car accidents and a half a mile of road work on the freeway before he finally made it to his exit, and anticipation made his stomach twist. He was still reeling from the fact that he was _married_ to Steve. He needed some gaps filled in, but it would have to wait for about the next eight hours.

“I’m fucked,” Bucky muttered under his breath when he was his work site. The Tower was impressive, twenty-five floors of mirrored glass and an enormous, stylized “S” on the penthouse level. His dream job. A huge technical corporation with countless perks and advancement opportunities, not to mention its own parking garage. Not bad for a guy who slept through most of his eight o’clock classes (courtesy of beer pong).

Bucky managed to find a parking spot on the third level and tried to rein in his anxiety in the elevator ride down. How was he going to get through this day? So far, he’d been running on autopilot, following cues from Steve, and their _children_. 

When did they get married? When did they decide to move to the suburbs? What did Steve do for a living? What did his parents think of him marrying a man? When did they even fall in love? Bucky remembered his college career, and it involved a lot of hook-ups with girls that he wasn’t quick to text the day after, a few unfortunate flings, and earning himself Steve’s look of disgust whenever he would bring any of them back to their dorm and motion for him to skedaddle. There was the occasional hookup with a cute boy, too, but those tended to be just as unspectacular. He vaguely remembered Pietro and shuddered. Bucky headed past the reception desk but was stopped by a nasal female voice.

“Where’s your badge?” A buxom brunette with large blue eyes sat filing her nails. She paused to adjust the mic on her phone headset and leveled him a look. “We don’t just let _anyone_ in here.”

“Uh…” He patted his pockets, but only felt the bulge of his wallet. He glanced down at his briefcase and took it to the wraparound shelf of her huge desk. She watched him with an unimpressed look. “Must be in here somewhere. Hey, I work here, don’t you know me?”

“Sure do,” she said cheerfully. “James Buchanan Barnes-Rogers.”

That made him pause. “Barnes-Rogers?”

“Uh, _yeah_.” She shook her head and grinned. “You guys went fifty-fifty on the names when you tied the knot. You never did send me a thank-you note for the melon baller set I gave you. _You’re welcome._ ” He continued to rummage in his briefcase. No luck. No badge. She sighed. “You know the drill. Sign in. You get a loser badge for the day. If it’s lost, this one’s on you. Fifteen bucks to replace it and re-take your photo, Buckster.”

“Loser badge?”

She grinned and took a roll of “My Name is” stickers out of her drawer. “Shit. Not one of those.”

“Sorry, Mr. Barnes-Rogers. Go ahead and sign in.” At least the heavy Cross pen was more dignified than the enormous red and white sticker she scrawled with the words “I forgot my BADGE” in black Sharpie pen. She peeled it off the backing, stood, and slapped it on the lapel of his blazer. “There we go! Have a great day of work!”

He fumed all the way to his suite – thank God the suite number was also on his business card – and he looked around all of the nearly identical offices for some indication of which one might be his. He hoped it wasn’t the huge room full of cubicles where a group of clerical staff were marking up a whiteboard with Fantasy Football squares and arguing over their teams’ chances. It was tempting to head in that direction and buy himself a square, but he needed to figure out where he was supposed to be.

“Hey, Buck! Bucky! Hang on a sec!” He turned to the familiar voice and saw Clint Barton grinning at him, looking how he remembered, except the laugh lines around his eyes had deepened and strands of gray snuck into his dark blond hair. He was also a bit paunchier than Bucky remembered. He looked relatively sharp in a dark gray suit with an amethyst purple tie and dark loafers. Bucky was relieved to see a familiar face.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “What’s going on?”

“Forgot your badge, huh? Darcy got ya, again!”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“She even drew a smiley face on it. I never get a smiley face. What makes you special?”

“I have a way with the ladies.”

“Speaking of which, Nat wants the girls to come over for a play date.”

“Nat? Wait… _Natasha?_ ”

“Yes, my loving wife who gives me reason to draw breath,” Clint chided slowly. “That Nat. Remember? You and Steve were my best men? Because you tied the knot first?”

Bucky longed to see a wedding album. Stat.

“So, a play date?”

Clint beamed. “Yeah! We can take them to Sky High again. I know I can nail that flip off the wall this time.” Bucky vaguely remembered Sky High, the indoor trampoline park with the enormous arcade and overpriced snacks. “Or we can just do Chuck E. Cheese.”

“No.” Bucky’s voice was flat. “Anywhere but there. Wash your mouth out with soap.”

He’d been afraid of the animatronic mouse as a kid, hiding in the ball pit and refusing to come out until his mother waded in and extracted him. He refused to relive that trauma.

“Sky High it is!” Clint held up his hand for a high five. Bucky didn’t leave him hanging.

“Hey, Clint?”

“Yeah, bro?”

“Mind telling me where my office is?”

Clint huffed a laugh. “What, you’re kidding, right?”

“Heh. Yeah.” He rubbed his nape.

“You just moved in to the one next to Pepper’s,” Clint reminded him. “Took forever to pack all your crap into boxes and move it over. You having an off day?”

“Next to Pepper’s.”

“Yup. Down that hall, past the break room. Pass the tacky framed Georgia O’Keefe print on the wall, and you’ve gone too far.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Left, actually.”

“Okay.”

“Call me. Sky High!” Clint called after him.

How was he going to function?

 

He reached his office, and he immediately saw a plaque engraved with his name on it in front of his blotter calendar. That was when he noticed the random assortment of objects scattered here and there that looked like a herd of preschoolers broke in and redecorated. Bucky had a lopsided dish of some kind made out of modeling clay and painted in tempera that held his safety pins and binder clips, a half dozen coloring pages of Disney characters with colored pencil strokes that refused to remain inside the lines, crayon sketches of “Me and Daddy and Daddy” thumbtacked to his bulletin board, a digital picture frame that hadn’t been turned on yet, and a calendar hanging over his desk with a photo of Sarah and Winnie in Halloween costumes above the September heading. 

They were adorable. They were his. _His_. Bucky set down his briefcase and sat down in his comfortable leather rolling chair and booted up his computer. He puzzled for a minute over the log-on, trying several possible key words.

“How about, ‘Steve?’”

Bingo. Why was he surprised? Bucky opened his Outlook, and a bunch of reminder windows popped up at once. Apparently, he went to a lot of meetings. Oh, joy.

“Barnes?” A light, southern California-sounding baritone in his doorway interrupted him from the hundred unread messages in his inbox. Tony Stark leaned against the frame, cutting a dash in a two-button Tom Ford suit minus the tie. “Excuse me, Barnes _-Rogers_ ,” he amended, and Bucky would never get used to that. “Meeting in five. Green Room B.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t forget those reports.”

“Reports?” Bucky’s eyes were blank.

“Kidding! I’m kidding! Wilson’s bringing the reports.” He flicked him something that he reached up and caught in a "think fast” grab and saw that it was a company credit card. “You’re bringing the coffee. It’s your turn.”

“Right…”

“Pick up the list for the order from Darcy,” Tony told him. “See you in five. Well, four minutes and forty-five seconds.”

“O. Kay.”

Darcy didn’t even look up at him as she handed him the order list at the desk. He spied a Starbucks through the front glass doors and beelined outside, crossing the street with a flood of private schoolers decked out in navy blazers and pleated skirts. The line in Starbucks was horrendously long, but when he took his place, he heard a voice call his name. “Bucky?” A tiny girl with Chinese features and a short, spiky haircut cracked her gum at him and waved him over. “Here. Forget the list, Tony already called it in. You know he loves giving you a hard time.” Her name tag read “Jubilation L.” Bucky slid the company card across the counter, and he signed the credit slip she shoved at him.

“Nice look on you. Steve has good taste.”

“Hey, I dressed myself,” Bucky argued as he took the drink carriers and backed away from the counter.

“Coulda fooled me. He takes good care of you. We should _all_ have a Steve.”

“Right. Moving on.”

“Does he have a brother?”

“No. Only child.” Bucky remembered that much, at least.”

“Later, gator.”

*

The meeting was tedious. Bucky participated at a minimum and kept staring down at the wedding ring on his hand. Bucky had handed out the drinks and looked for the one that was his.

“Decaf green tea,” Pepper reminded him. “You can’t have too much caffeine. It causes insulin spikes.”

“Oh. Right.” Was everyone the diabetes police?”

“We don’t want a repeat of last time,” Sam mentioned casually. “Your husband was a mess. He barked orders at the paramedics until they drove you out of here. That man had to have racked up ten speeding tickets-“

“Paramedics?”

“You had an episode,” Sam reminded him, frowning. “I found you on the floor in your office, seizing.”

_Shit._

“You pushed yourself a little too far. You’re not superhuman,” Sam added. 

“Guess not.” Bucky’s mind blurred with what he was hearing. 

That explained Steve’s rigid insistence that he eat properly and take his shot on time.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

“Fine,” he offered. “I’m just gonna go clean out my inbox.”

“Okay.” Sam didn’t look convinced. “Hey, Buck, Clint mentioned a playdate. Monica and I might bring Suri, too. Just set up a time.”

“Okay.” Bucky tried to keep his pace steady, but he wanted to sprint back to his office, slam the door shut and huddle in fetal position under his desk.

He made his way through his inbox, more meetings, and a presentation where he thankfully didn’t have to speak. By the time two-thirty rolled around, he was exhausted. He sprawled back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, then heard his cell phone chirp. He fumbled for it and saw Steve’s face and number flash across his screen. It was a cute photo. Bucky swiped the screen and answered it. “Hey.”

“Hey. Winnie is sick. The preschool called to have us come get her.”

“Shoot. How bad is she?”

“Fever. Her cheeks are red and she threw up.” Bucky winced.

“Ugh…”

“You need to pick her up,” Steve told him, and he sounded apologetic and anxious. “I have to meet with a client. Do you have a free window to get her?”

“I’ll make one. I made a dent in all of this, kind of.” Barely. But his daughter was sick. Bucky chucked his empty green tea cup in the wastebasket for two points and set his out-of-office message in his Outlook. He peeled off the annoying name sticker from his jacket and intercom-called Pepper.

“I have to head out and pick up my munchkin. She threw up.”

“Oh, joy. Sounds fun.” She sounded sympathetic. “Have those reports ready by noon tomorrow?”

“Promise.” 

“Hope she feels better soon, Bucky. Take it easy, okay?”

*

Easier said than done.

Winnie stalked over to him and attached herself to his legs, and she looked _miserable_. Her cheeks were red and her forehead was sweaty, her dark hair escaping its braids. Her eyes were glossy and watery, and she wore a pitiful expression that twisted his heart. “Aw, baby girl. You feeling crummy?” He stroked her hair, and she whimpered, and Bucky swore to the Parenting Deities that he would do anything to appease them, make any sacrifice, if he never heard his little girl make that plaintive sound again. That sound made him want to quit his job in a New York minute and wrap his daughter in a germ-proof bubble.

“She was fine until snack time. She just nibbled on a graham cracker and had a sip of juice, and that was all she wrote.” Bucky noticed she wasn’t wearing her sweater that he’d dressed her in, just the undershirt. “Here,” her teached said, handing him a plastic bag. “Pop that in the wash when you get home. It got splattered.”

Bucky didn’t want to open the bag. You couldn’t pay him enough. Winnie whimpered again, and he scooped her up in his arms. Her little arms wrapped themselves around his neck. “Wanna go home, Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“Don’t forget Mr. Fergus.” Her teacher handed Bucky a small stuffed bear in a blue shirt missing half of its ear. “She left him here on Sharing Day.” Bucky was stopped briefly by the day care director and asked when he planned to make the tuition payment next.

“Steve will drop it off tomorrow,” he told her brusquely. Winnie exhaled an impatient breath against his shoulder, and it smelled stale and sour. She was definitely feeling crummy.

He wrestled with the car seat, securing Winnie and Mr. Fergus, and for good measure, he put the soiled sweater in the trunk.

*

 

Steve came home to an exhausted Bucky three hours later. He placed a handful of takeout bags on the kitchen table and dropped the mail on the counter. Bucky was slumped over the kitchen table, and Steve reached out and gave his shoulder a little shake.

“You all right?” He was frowning.

“I didn’t know one little girl could make that much vomit.” 

“Uh-oh. How’s she doing now?”

“Fine. I got her to keep down a dose of Tylenol and found the Pedialyte pops in the freezer behind _every other item_ inside, but I found them. We read stories. We watched Sophia the First. And we threw up all over Daddy’s work pants.” Bucky said all of this from the nest of his folded arms, pretty speaking to the table.

“Right. I got some ginger ale and some soup from Safeway, too.”

“Bless you.” Steve reached down and kneaded Bucky’s nape, and he groaned at how good it felt. “That feels fantastic. Never stop doing that.”

“Knew you kept me around for a reason, huh?”

“You have your uses. Ooh, right behind the ear…” Bucky was making obscene noises of contentment. Steve chuckled and kissed the top of his head. “By the way, don’t open the hamper yet. I put Winnie’s sheets in the wash, but her tummy wasn’t quite through, yet.” 

“No problem. Gross, but no problem.”

“I had to change the sheets. I had to sponge off the couch. I had to mop the bathroom floor.” Steve extended the massage to his shoulders. It was almost as good as sex.

That thought brought him up quickly. “Uh, let’s warm up some soup for the girls.”

“Rest,” Steve told him.

“M’fine. No big deal.” Bucky got up and retrieved bowls and spoons and a saucepan, missing Steve’s look of confusion behind him.

“Okay.”

It was so hard not to fall under the thrall of those strong, warm hands on him. Bucky still needed to figure out how they got there.

*

The days bled together in an ongoing cycle of meetings, Tumbling for Tots classes, grocery shopping trips, trips to Home Depot, yard work, Brownie Scout field trips, school open houses, and waking up every morning to Steve. He inevitably woke up with Steve wrapped around him like an octopus, embarrassingly erect, and every day it was more of the same, hastily mumbled excuses as he extricated himself from his arms.

“Everything all right?” Steve inquired, and there was that look of confusion again. Bucky’s body felt bereft, thrumming with frustration, because it felt _right_ , felt _safe_ in his arms, but he still had so few answers.

He finally found the wedding album, but it left as many questions in his mind. There were photos of the two of them dancing and cutting the cake, and of Steve dancing with Winifred and Becca, but there was no sign of Steve’s mom or anyone who looked like they were related to him at all. Bucky only recognized their friends and his parents, a few aunts and uncles, and his sister. He put the album back into the box he found it in, then noticed a large poster tube. He uncapped it and pulled out a large, rolled up drawing. It had some creases in it, but he remembered it.

The drawing. Steve’s mid-term project. Sarah Rogers, her glowing smile rendered in pencil by a loving hand. Bucky noticed the faint bluish stain that blurred some of the shading. His throat felt tight. He slid it back into the tube and backed out of the attic, clicking off the light.

Steve looked up from a large stack of birthday party invitations that he was writing out for Sarah to pass out at school. “Hey, what’ve you got there?”

“Here.” Bucky handed it to him and stepped back, leaning against the counter. “It was in the attic.” Steve blinked. He shook the rolled-up paper out of the tube. He moved the invitations aside and laid the sketch out on the table. 

“Oh. I forgot this was up there.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. It’s been a while since I even thought about it.” And just like that, he rolled it back up and put it carefully back into its tube. “You can go ahead and put it back.” His voice was quiet, and his neck was tense. He handed it back to Bucky without looking up at him, and Bucky realized he touched a nerve.

“I’m sorry. Was I not supposed to bring this-“

“It’s okay, Bucky.” He went back to the invitations, writing on each little card with his neat penmanship.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t.” 

His voice sounded resigned, and a little sad. He looked up at Bucky when he noticed how he was staring at him, tense and gripping the tube protectively. “What?”

“Was I that much of an asshole?” Bucky asked. He cleared his throat. “I seem to remember that I was.”

Steve shook his head. “Things were different back then,” he offered. “We patched things up. Everything worked out.” He began tucking the completed cards into the tiny white envelopes and using a damp sponge to moisten them. “We moved on. Why?” He looked up at him again, and his brows were scrunched together. “Bucky? What’s wrong?”

“I was awful to you. You moved out.” The memory broke through, something that was simmering under the layers of domesticity and fatherhood and his life of being a husband, living the all-American dream of backyard grills and picket fences.

“I just moved down the hall,” Steve corrected him. “Just seemed like it was for the best.” Steve huffed. “Sam wasn’t thrilled at first. We were buds, but I drove him a little crazy when I first moved in. He preferred living with Riley.”

_Just seemed like it was for the best._

“I’ll just put this back.”

He fled the kitchen and hid the tube as far back as he could behind the trunks of clothes the girls had outgrown. He escaped to the shower and hoped Steve didn’t walk in to hear him crying beneath the sound of the spray pounding the tiles.

*

That night changed something between them. Bucky stopped shying away from affection from Steve, only to find, to his dismay, that Steve stopped offering it. Steve gave him an awkward pat before bed instead of his usual warm kiss, and he was hugging the other side of the mattress, his broad back turned to Bucky. That hurt, like a slap. 

Bucky and Steve threw themselves into their usual routine, and things between them were too quiet, too tense. Steve stopped nagging Bucky to come watch Restaurant: Impossible and Beat Bobby Flay with him on the couch, instead retiring to their home office with his laptop in the dark. He sketched on his tablet with his stylus in fast, almost angry strokes. Bucky began taking evening jogs alone to clear his head once the girls were in bed. He distracted himself by reading with the girls before he tucked them in, even if it meant finishing Miss Spider’s Tea Party three times before Winnifred settled down.

*

“Hey,” Clint told him when he ambushed him by the copier. “We still haven’t made it to Sky High.”

“Winnie wasn’t up to it that one weekend,” Bucky reminded him. 

“Well, let’s cash in that raincheck. You game? This Saturday?”

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll order the tickets from their Web site,” Clint told him, grinning. “I’m gonna nail that flip.”

“Great. Knock yourself out,” Bucky said without enthusiasm.

“I might even get Nat into the foam pit,” Clint promised. “It’ll be a great time!”

 

*

“We’re going to Sky High on Saturday,” Bucky told Steve as he got dressed for bed. Steve was trying not to steal looks at him as he undressed, but he looked up from his magazine where he sat up in bed reading it. He took off his reading glasses and gently folded their stems before he frowned.

“This Saturday? I thought we were going to do yard work. I was going to plant that lemon tree out back.”

“Do it on Sunday. Sam and Clint are going to be there. It’ll be a great time. The girls love it there.” Bucky only knew this because they blew out his ear drums shrieking with excitement when he told them.

“Fine.” Steve closed his magazine and put it aside. “Turn off the light?”

“In a minute.” Bucky tugged on his pajama bottoms and closed his bureau drawer. “Can we talk?”

“Now? It’s late. My head hurts, and I just wanna turn in. Hey, what? Okay,” Steve muttered as Bucky climbed into bed and snared him, wrapping his arms and legs around him like an octopus. 

“How’s a guy supposed to get a hug from his husband?” Steve blew out an exasperated breath, but to Bucky’s relief, his arms wrapped around him and he settled him against his chest.

“You’re being really needy.”

“I just wanna talk.” His voice was low and plaintive. “I don’t know how we arrived here, Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

“When did you decide that you loved me?”

The pause was long, and in Bucky’s opinion, painful. He felt his heart sink.

“It just happened,” Steve told him. “I don’t remember a specific moment.”

“When did you stop being angry at me, then?”

“What’s this about, Bucky?” Steve reached down and nudged him, then frowned when he heard Bucky’s shaky breath. “Bucky? You okay?”

“You really don’t know, then. Okay. I don’t blame you, I guess.” He tried to keep his voice calm and level.

Steve felt his hot tear drops hit his neck.

“I let Brock ruin your drawing.” He felt Steve’s hand in his hair, then felt the soft, lingering press of his lips.

“We got past it.”

“You were still upset when I found it.”

“There are memories attached to it that I have a hard time with. It wasn’t what you did.” Steve stroked his back and kissed him again. “I didn’t know you were carrying this around.”

“You worked hard on it.”

“I still have the photo. The drawing doesn’t matter so much. You were the one who saved it, Bucky. You didn’t have to.”

And that only left Bucky with more questions.

Things were still uneasy between them. But Steve held him for as long as he needed, and they both occupied the center of the mattress until their alarm went off.

 

*

Bucky and Steve parked outside the Sky High warehouse just as Clint and Nat arrived. Motherhood agreed with Natasha, and except for a hint of slackness in her abdomen and more fullness in her cheeks when she smiled, she hadn’t changed. Their little girl was a redhead, too, but she had her father’s blue eyes and impish smile, and she insisted on riding high on his shoulders. 

“Get down for a second and hug Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky,” Clint told Yelena. She complied, offering them each a brief, restless hug before holding up her arms for her father to put her back up. 

“I want up, too, Daddy!” Winnifred insisted. Bucky indulged her, and they headed inside to hand over their tickets and check in. Nat handed the computer printouts to the clerk while she registered them and gave the children wrist bands. Sam caught up to them.

“Hope you guys ate. The food here costs a grip. A slice of pizza costs five dollars.”

“Not to worry,” Nat assured him, and when they hustled the kids off to a table and divested them of their shoes, she showed him the box of granola bars and fruit snack pouches she had smuggled into her big purse.

“That’s my girl,” Clint bragged, nuzzling her cheek.

“Okay, guys, go to town,” Steve encouraged. The girls all rushed off and headed down to the trampoline deck. Older kids and teenagers did split jumps and flips off the vertical trampoline pads lining the walls to show off. 

“I’m going in!” Clint motioned to the foam pit. “C’mon, Wilson!”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he agreed. They looked incongruously tall standing in the line amongst the five-thru-twelves. To Bucky’s amusement, Clint had on Superman socks.

“I’m gonna go down with the girls,” Steve told Bucky. “See if you can tape them this time. Sarah said she wants to try a flip.”

“Spot her,” Bucky fretted.

“I know,” Steve snapped. “Just tape her, please.” Bucky took out his phone and waited for Steve to descend the stairs before he went to the rail and turned it on, bringing up his camera. He caught some footage of Winnie and Yelena jumping in tandem, holding hands, and he grinned when they both landed on their butts.

“Hey, James? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“What’s up?”

“You and Steve seem a little off.”

“We’re managing. Just hit a rough patch.”

“Okay.”

“Happens sometimes.”

“You just seem rattled.”

“Yeah.”

She sidled up to him at the rail and put a companionable arm around his back. “What would help?”

“I don’t know. We were happy. Things seemed all right, but just… I had this memory that’s left me off-kilter.” He sighed. “I was a jerk. I asked Steve when he decided he loved me. He didn’t have much of an answer. And we had a tiff about his drawing.”

“Hmm.” She rubbed his arm. “The one of his mother?”

“Yeah.”

“You kept it?”

“I couldn’t let him throw it away.”

“It was his to throw away.”

“But it was my fault it got ruined.”

“And Brock’s.”

“I just fucked up.”

“What? By finding the sketch?”

“No. Just reminding him how much it upset him. I was a dick to him so many times.” His throat felt tight again.

“Look,” she said, to distract him, “Sarah’s trying her flip.” Bucky turned on his camera and hit the video button, and with Steve’s encouragement, she attempted a wobbly cartwheel at first, then another. She began to bound up in the air on the bounce pad, and she executed her flip, a simple tuck, and she landed on her bottom. Steve was rapt, clapping and grinning, and Bucky’s heart squeezed.

“Bucky, he loves you. He’s _always_ loved you. You were both hard-headed.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. His voice was uneven.

“That’s why I had to give you a nudge.”

“Wait. What?”

“You were both being stubborn. A couple of idiots, if we’re being blunt. So I gave you a push. When you found the drawing, that interrupted the spell.”

“What?” Bucky felt his world tilt. He stared at her as though she grew another head.

“This moment where you are now, it hasn’t happened yet. This is a twist of fate, from a spell I cast the day Steve moved out.” She poked him. “Go ahead and keep filming. She’s going to flip again.”


	4. Difficult, and Not So Difficult, Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spell revealed. A choice to be made. And Natasha Romanoff is a pain in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who has read this and commented so far, it has been gratifying to talk with you about this story. My AO3 uploads are hit and miss; I can write twenty pages one day and have the link get lost in a tide of fifty other Stucky chapters that other users have uploaded the same day, or I can get a comment on a story that I haven’t updated in a year. Murphy’s Law!
> 
> Still breaking in my new laptop. It’s wonky and it doesn’t like me. Fic updates will be slow. Thank you again for reading. 
> 
> And in other news, Civil War MESSED ME UP.

“So, Barnes. Barbecue on Saturday.”

“Huh?”

“Yelena’s birthday? You remember Yelena? About yay-high, redheaded, sort of cute, has a thing for pink light-up sneakers?”

Bucky gave him a hopeless “I got nuthin’” shrug and took a gulp of his cooling tea, because damn it, it wasn’t coffee, Steve, and it never would be, but his spouse – was he? – was taking the fun out of everything with helping him manage his sugar. Yet Bucky was surprisingly well-rested. At least, when he wasn’t fretting about Natasha’s little bombshell and the ramifications.

“But you guys are coming, right?” Clint prodded, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky nodded absently and made a noncommittal noise.

“With bells on. What does she want?”

“You know the drill. Per Nat, no gender-specific toys.”

“Well. That’s very non-specific.”

“Just play it safe and get her a board game or some toys she can play with in the pool. Legos wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“Fair enough.” Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the boys’ section of a Toys R Us and added to his Star Wars action figure collection, let alone bought a boy’s gift for a friend or family member’s son. His world with his daughters was just so unabashedly _pink._ It still felt so strange to retrieve his commuter cup from the cabinet stuffed with pink plastic sippy cups with peeling decals of My Little Pony. Tiny, plastic-handled eating utensils mingled with the flatware they received as wedding gifts in the drawer. 

His mind rewound over and over to that moment at the jumping park. Bucky stared at her slack-jawed.

*

“If you leave your mouth hanging open like that, the flies might get in,” Nat warned.

“You said- you said ‘spell,’ right? That’s what you just said? You put a SPELL on me and Steve?”

“It’s more encompassing than that. You aren’t the only ones living in this reality. Sam, Clint, the kids… we’re all experiencing this with you. One of my finer efforts, James, but it’s still very sensitive magic.” She nodded to Steve. “He isn’t fully aware yet. All he knows is that something is different between you.” She pinned Bucky with a calculating gaze. “And what happens next on this little journey is up to you.”

“This is a joke. Nat. This is _ridiculous._

“It’s not a joke.” Her eyes pinned him. “This is as real as you let it be, James Barnes.”

“Barnes-Rogers,” he said, voice hollow as he stared down at Steve, now playing with Sarah. They were both laughing and egging each other on to do tricks, which again, involved jumping up and landing on their butts to see who could bounce back up to their feet. Not exactly Cirque de Soleil, Bucky reasoned, but they were glowing and bright-eyed and happy, and _holy fuck, this wasn’t really his_.

“Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

He was still reeling.

“Nat. How… why did you do this?”

“Because you two were ignoring the potential of what lay between you. You wasted weeks, James – no, _months_ treating Steve like dirt and ignoring all of the little signs that he cared about you, and you were in _complete_ denial about how you felt about him.” She stared down at Clint and Sam on the periphery as they risked the snack bar, breaking down and splitting a basket of gloppy nachos. “And who knows? Maybe you would have worked things out, or maybe you would have kept being hard-headed. A few weeks might have gone by, and Steve and Sam would have moved into an apartment together. You and Riley would have parted ways, and you would have gone and moved in with Brock. Maybe you would have continued down the same self-destructive path without a safety net. Maybe you would have told yourself that you were the only person who had to worry about you, because Brock probably wouldn’t.”

Bucky let her words sink in. 

She was _right_.

For all that Brock was his partner in crime and a favored drinking buddy, he _wasn’t_ reliable. How many times had he flaked on Bucky for study dates for group projects or labs? How many times had he deserted Bucky when they were at parties and Bucky had to rely on his hosts to call him a cab when Brock ditched him for some girl? How many times had Bucky let him into his and Steve’s dorm, letting him heckle Steve until he flushed, muttered under his breath that he had to study, and then watched him stalk out the door? How many times had Brock pranked him when he passed out? He’d grown creative with dick drawings and a Sharpie pen; it took several attempts with hand sanitizer to get Brock’s last “masterpiece” off of his forehead, fer cryin’ out loud.

Bucky always had to spot Brock a twenty for laundry money or open a tab at the bars when they went out. Bucky always had to spot Brock at the gym, too, before he worked on his own sets or did his cardio. Brock always took the last of his gum. 

“Steve was a great roommate, or would have been, if you had appreciated him more. He would have also been a wonderful _friend_ if you had let him.” Natasha broke into his thoughts. James released a shaky breath.

“I never expected this. I never saw myself doing _this_.” Bucky plowed his fingers through the back of his hair. “This isn’t my life, but it’s… it’s not bad. It’s just not what I pictured.”

“Sometimes, the picture changes. Things shift. People change. This is what happens when you grow up and stop going out every Dollar Pitcher Tuesday.” 

“Daddy! Come jump with me!” Winnie yelled up to him, holding her arms out as though she wanted him to reach down and pick her up, even though he was peering over the railing from twenty feet overhead. He longed to continue his discussion with Nat, to demand that she make this make _sense_ , but his daughter looked so expectant, and she was adorable and reminded him so much of his sister Becca at that age, and that trampoline was _enormous_ and tempting.

“I’m coming, cupcake,” he called down. “Daddy’s coming.”

“All of that could be yours, if you just reach out and take it. Don’t be stubborn, James.” Natasha’s voice was low, and she wasn’t even looking at him; her eyes were drawn to Clint, who had Yelena on his lap and who was sharing his questionable nachos with enthusiasm. Nat’s smile was fond. “You have another chance. You have this choice.”

*

When Bucky got home, he excavated Winnie’s backpack and found the birthday invitation. The front was inkjet-printed with a girlish crayon sketch of a little girl smiling in a large mass of blue scribble that was most likely a pool, and the date, time, and RSVP were neatly printed in Nat’s neat handwriting inside the flap. Clothes and “empowering” toys were what they were hoping for. Bucky wondered how annoyed she would be if they just got Yelena a gift card.

“What’s that?” Steve inquired from over his shoulder. Bucky handed it up to him from the dining table, where he was working on a crossword puzzle and reading the sports pages. The girls were lying on their stomachs in the living room in front of the Disney channel while Steve finished fixing dinner. He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Empowering toys?”

“Not specific to girls.”

“Don’t they make pink Tonka trucks?” Steve suggested. “Princess Leia has an action figure.”

Bucky grinned. “That, she does.”

“Legos?” Steve prodded.

“Legos,” Bucky agreed. “And a gift card.”

“Fair enough.” Steve went back to shuffling his spatula through a skillet of stir-fried brussels sprouts and turned down the heat on his sautéed chicken breasts. Bucky had just finished folding and putting away a load of laundry, wondering if the unmated socks formed their own community somewhere in the house and if they were mocking him. Steve handed him back the invitation and nodded to the large whiteboard next to the refrigerator.

“Pencil us in. That way I can tell Nick that I can’t travel that weekend.” Bucky got up and scrawled the party time on the calendar grid in red dry erase pen. “We can go shopping tomorrow after dinner and let the girls pick something out.”

“That’s fine.” Bucky went back to his crossword, but he was coming up empty on the clues.

“I didn’t know you liked crossword puzzles,” Steve mentioned. “I wouldn’t keep throwing out the old papers so fast if you’d told me.”

“No big deal. You didn’t know,” Bucky murmured as he went back and reconsidered his answer for five-down. “I don’t expect you to know every little detail about me, Stevie.” For a moment, Bucky flashed back to an expired orange juice carton in a tiny dorm fridge, but he brushed the memory away.

His husband - _husband_ \- huffed. “Stevie? Seriously? I’m Stevie now?”

“Sorry. My bad. Sweetie-Boo. Lovey Pumpkin.”

“Oh, God, no!”

“Kissy-Face. Honey Pants.”

“God, Buck, stop!” But Steve’s chest was shaking and he was turning beet red over the sprouts. “That’s awful. Never give me a pet name _again_.”

“What’s wrong with Honey Pants?”

“What, indeed?” Bucky smirked over the edge of his paper as he abandoned the puzzle and finished reading the basketball scores.

*

Barbecues.

Bucky vaguely remembered them at his mom and dad’s as boring affairs, men outside talking about lawn maintenance and doctor’s visits and cholesterol pills and home repairs, while his mom and her friends congregated in the kitchen over diet sodas and veggie and hummus platters, thumbing through PartyLite and Pampered Chef catalogs. Bucky and his friends inevitably took refuge in his room until the grownups called back to him that the food was ready and to help bring out the salads and chips, using him and Becca as unpaid labor.

Barbecues, once he was in college, became “kickbacks” and happened at creekside or poolside, depending on which of his friends lived at a nice enough apartment complex to have a pool. Bar S hot dogs and Costco hamburger patties occupied the cheap hibachi grill, growing scorched and dry as they downed several bottles of Bud Light and Keystone. They blasted their music too loud and took turns cannonballing into the deep section until management warned them to stop. There were never any fancy salads or side dishes, only family size bags of tortilla chips and whatever ice pops they scored from the dilapidated ice cream truck once they pooled their change; laundry could wait another couple of days when Bucky was in the mood for a Rocket Pop.

Bucky noticed the noise first through the front door as he waited with Steve and the girls on the porch, juggling several Tupperware containers. Steve took Nat and Clint seriously when they said “bring the side or salad of your choice.” He chose to bring the entire cold section of Safeway. Sarah and Winnie bounced with excitement, hair slicked back in pool-friendly ponytails and dressed in cool, strappy little sundresses and jelly sandals. Both girls held small gift bags – sorry, Nat, the girls wanted pink, gender neutrality be damned – and Bucky sighed, already tired of carrying the enormous party tray of deviled eggs wrapped in foil. He heard screeching children and deep splashes from the pool and eighties rock blaring from the backyard, and Clint grinned loopily at them as he yanked open the door.

“Nat! Steve and Bucky brought enough food to feed Peru,” he called over his shoulder. 

“Then what are you waiting for? Let them in!” she called back, and Bucky whistled under his breath.

“Wow,” he muttered. “Just… wow.”

The house was attractive from the curb but unremarkable at first. It was one of about twenty homes on the block painted a safe, sellable sage green with an impeccable lawn, but the interior was lush. Sleek leather couches and travertine tile gave the living room some class, and the photo collages hung carefully on the right wall. A set of Russian nesting dolls decorated the mantel, and Clint had their plasma screen set to the baseball game, to Steve’s delight. Clint clapped Steve on the back.

“I told the Buckster not to even show up if he didn’t bring your deviled eggs.” Then he grinned. “And you, of course.”

“Awww,” Steve cooed, fluttering his hand over his chest. 

“Nat,” Clint called into the kitchen,” can I marry Steve, too?”

“It doesn’t work that way, babe,” she reminded him while she stirred sour cream into a Jello salad.

“It could work!” Clint whined, and he grabbed Steve’s butt. “ _This_ is worth making it work.”

“Hey!” Bucky yelped. Steve was turning beet red, swatting Clint’s hand away with his free one and setting down the rest of the Tupperware. The table was piled high with food already, but Bucky busied himself, popping off lids and replenishing potato chip bowls from the open bags. “It wouldn’t work, Barton!”

“Aww, Bucky! C’mon, look at him! Better yet, look at those eggs… oh, my God!” He made blissed out, disgusting noises as he bit into one. “Nat, there’s _bacon_ in these.”

“Of course there is,” she muttered. “Thanks, Martha Stewart,” she told Steve, but he just smiled and shrugged, rounding the corner of her counter and kissing her cheek.

“Looking good, Mrs. Barton.” She grinned up at him.

“That almost makes up for my husband hitting on you.”

“Almost,” Bucky muttered.

“Don’t be jealous, I’ll show you some love, Buckster!” And with that Clint grabbed a handful of Bucky’s nether parts. “Ooh, that’s good stuff!” 

“Not in front of the kids, NOT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS!” Bucky snapped, swatting at him and quickly spinning and planting his butt against the counter wall against further groping.

“Where do we put these?” Sarah interjected.

“Gift table’s over there, sweeties,” Nat told the girls, and they deposited the bags in front of the tower of gifts before rushing out to the pool.

“Girls! Sunscreen first,” Bucky called after them, and the girls came pouting back, waiting patiently for their fathers to slather them in the pink foam, daubing some on the tips of their noses and tops of their ears for good measure. Clint hauled out the spare kids’ sized life jackets and buckled the girls in, tugging the straps tight.

“Leave some of the water in the pool, okay?” Clint suggested. The girls nodded and rushed off, screeching in their outdoor voices and snagging pool noodles from the huge bin. Nat set her Jello salad in the fridge to chill, then elbowed Bucky.

“Help me bring out the meat.”

“I’ll do it, babe. Take a rest,” Clint chided.

“No, no. You and Steve watch your game. Bucky’s not much of a Dodger’s fan, anyway.” 

Steve pulled a face. “I know. Traitor. Go! Away with you! I banish thee to the fire!”

“Harsh,” Bucky muttered, but he noticed Nat wearing her We Need to Talk Face that he’d learned early on to fear. He followed her outside with the huge, foil-covered pans of uncooked meat. He helped her load up the gas grill with chicken skewers, kebobs, and carne asada.

“We’ll do the hot dogs last for the kids,” she told him. “They won’t want to come out of the pool for a while.”

“Fair enough.”

“Have you thought about what I said?”

“Yeah. Kinda hard not to.”

“Just so you know, this doesn’t have to be hard, James. You can either accept this future – keep in mind, even as this is happening, it hasn’t truly happened yet – or you can go back to that fork in the road. I can send you back to that point in time, right when he decided to move out.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“Nat… I just, I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“If this is what we’re supposed to be to each other. If… if he really wants this.”

“Wait.” She held up a hand to stop him. “Tell me you don’t doubt him. Are you saying… are you _questioning_ how that man feels about you?”

“Natasha. I know I was being an idiot before-“

“You’re not showing me how much that’s changed since then,” she pointed out, sighing. She poked the kebobs with a long turning fork and closed the lid on the grill.

“You say he’s experiencing this along with me. He wasn’t acting like anything was out of the ordinary when I first woke up to him. He doesn’t know this is a spell, right?”

“Correct.” They both glanced toward the patio door at the sound of Clint and Steve’s loud whoops when the Dodgers scored a run. “He doesn’t question what he has with you, if you’re wondering. This feels right to him, and it’s what he wanted. See, Bucky, this isn’t just a ‘what-if.’ I didn’t just whistle this up out of my magic hat. Well, I _did_ , but I used a blueprint. This is Steve’s dream for the two of you.”

“His dr… this is his _dream_?” Bucky stammered. “Of us? Of being married to me?”

“He’s stupid crazy over you.”

“But I made him hate me,” he argued as he sank down into a webbed lawn chaise. Natasha sighed and rolled her eyes before rummaging in the cooler through the ice. She handed him a dripping bottle of Blue Moon after she uncapped it and claimed the chaise beside him in a graceful sprawl.

“No. You disappointed him, but it was hard for him. He still cared about you. The assignment was important to him, but in the end, he was angry at himself for being angry with _you_.” He contemplated her words as he sipped his beer. The afternoon was sweltering, and Bucky was thankful for the shade thrown by her palm trees surrounding their lagoon-style pool. “He worried about you after he moved out. He talked my ear off,” she complained. “It was ‘Bucky isn’t taking care of himself,’ and ‘Bucky might forget to take his insulin,’ and ‘Bucky left his meal card in his jeans pocket and it ended up in his laundry bag, it’ll get ruined.’ It was sickening.”

“He can still be a little Type A,” Bucky allowed. “But go easy on him.”

Nat grinned her little secret smile and helped herself to a beer. He was seeing what she wanted him to see. She would have hated to see perfectly good magic go to waste, after all.

They took turns tending the grill and calling out to the girls to behave. Yelena, Sarah and Winnie were leading a game of Simon Says, which involved faking out the younger kids to jump into the pool when they weren’t supposed to. They emerged with platters of steaming meat, calling out to Clint to open the patio door and let them in.

“Dinner!” Nat called out, and adults swamped the dining room, hastily filling plates for their dripping offspring and making them sit down at the picnic tables Nat had set up outside. Clint had the game on record so he and Steve could rewind to the parts they missed while they cut up two huge watermelons. Bucky grabbed two large slices of that first, needing to cool off.

“Go ahead and eat real food first,” Steve scolded, nudging him. 

“This is what I’m in the mood for. S’ pretty hot out. Beer didn’t help.”

Steve’s brows beetled. “Beer?”

“I just had one.”

“Buck,” Steve said, exasperated, “don’t sabotage yourself. You know you shouldn’t drink, with your sugar.”

“I’m not drinking ‘with my sugar,” Bucky argued, mimicking Steve’s tone. “I drank one beer. With Nat.”

Nat grimaced. “Oops. Sorry, Bucky. I forgot.”

“Bucky shouldn’t have forgotten,” Steve muttered as he continued to chop the melon into even wedges, and if his knife work was a little angry, well, there you had it.

“Stevie, don’t make it a big deal,” Bucky told him, but Steve’s mouth was a thin line.

“Eat something,” he snapped as he finished with the melon and walked it outside. Bucky, chafed, went ahead and moved his melon aside on his plate to make room for a kebob. He rounded up the girls and set them down with plates. Steve retreated back to the living room with Clint, picking halfheartedly at a plate of pasta salad and steak. They went back to their game, but Steve wasn’t cheering as loudly, and Bucky wandered back outside. He snagged a water bottle and downed half of it, then decided to join the girls in the pool, shedding his tee and letting the girls take turns riding on his shoulders into the deep end. They loved being dunked, and it was a nice distraction from his pissed off spouse. Bucky smothered a sigh. 

It was so easy to want Steve, but he didn’t want to keep disappointing him. He was jerked out of his musings by a wave of water splashing over him, and he saw Nat had waded into the pool to join Yelena.

“It’s a party, James. Lighten up.”

“Nat? What… what undoes the spell?”

She frowned at him, then shrugged.

“Just a few easy words, from you to him. ‘Maybe we should go back to how we were, Steve.’”

Bucky huffed, testing the words soundlessly. He felt a strange twisting in his chest.

“Easy squeezy,” he assured him.

*

The words haunted him all evening long after they left. The girls were exhausted and cranky, reeking of chlorine and sunscreen, and Bucky was grateful to get them into their bath so they would settle down. Steve retreated to the kitchen to put away the Tupperware. He said nothing to Bucky as he retrieved the girls’ damp swimsuits and started a load of laundry. Bucky released a pent-up, defeated breath.

“Why do you look like that, Daddy?” Winnie prodded as she played with her bath poof.

“Like what, baby?”

“Like you’re not happy.”

“I’m fine, baby.” He poured a plastic cup full of water over her hair to rinse out the shampoo. 

“Why’s Daddy sad?” Sarah prodded. “He’s wearing his growly face.”

Bucky huffed out a chuckle. “His growly face, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” They both nodded, and Sarah rocked side to side in the tub to make waves.

“GRRRAAHHHRRR!” Winnie gargled, making her hands into little claws. Bucky pretended to be scared.

“Oh, no! I’ve got a bear in my bathtub!”

That launched the girls into a fit of the giggles, and Bucky felt himself relax, finally. He heard the washing machine switch on downstairs and let the girls dawdle a little longer before wrapping them up in large, fluffy bath sheets and getting them ready for bed. They brushed their teeth, eyes drooping as he tucked them in, still insisting on a story. Winnie hopped into Sarah’s bed while he retrieved _Miss Spider’s Tea Party_ and a couple of Disney Little Golden Books from the shelf. His voice was a low, scratchy drone as he read to them, barely managing to lie on the edge of the twin bed, with them rapt and quiet, yawning as he flipped each page. He heard Steve approach and linger in the doorway. 

“No one told me it was story time,” he said in a mock-whine.

“Ya snooze, ya lose, pal,” Bucky offered.

“Read the part about the moth coming in from the rain,” Sarah demanded. It was her favorite part. 

It was also Steve’s favorite part. “Not yet. Scoot over.”

“What the… hey!” Steve barged in, pretending to shove all of them out of the way, then climbing into bed, using Bucky’s torso as a mattress. Bucky huffed, then wrapped an arm around Steve’s broad back and settled the book back into his grip. Sarah and Winnie giggled when Steve reached out and tickled them.

“The nerve of some people, hogging up story time for themselves,” he said. “Continue, Dad.”

“Okay, _Dad_.” He read on, feeling the tension begin to seep from Steve’s body, and he found himself stroking his fingers through his hair, drowsy from the whirr of the ceiling fan and the soft white light from Sarah’s Tinkerbell lamp and the sound of Steve and girls’ even, soft breathing. 

Bucky was wrapped up in love. Natasha’s choice still nagged at him. He wondered if he ever could – if he _should_ \- say those words.

*

The girls dozed off by the time he made it to the glass slipper search of Cinderella, and he huffed when he heard Steve’s low snore. “Errrrgh,” he grumbled, loathe to move any of them. But he gave him a tiny shake.

“Babe. Stevie. C’mon,” he rasped. He tugged a lock of his hair, and Steve’s snore cut off on a small startle. “They’re out.” Steve made a small noise of protest and patted Bucky’s cheek, then dragged himself up to his feet. He reached down and scooped up Winnie to put her in her own bed across the hall, turned on her ceiling fan, and gently shut the door. Bucky returned the books to the shelf and backed out of the room, then followed Steve into their suite. 

Steve sat on the foot of the bed to strip down, and Bucky noticed his stiff posture, realizing that they would have to revisit their tiff at the party at some point. Bucky shucked his sweaty clothes and tossed them into the hamper, keeping his boxers. He turned on their small oscillating fan on the bedside table and opened up the windows and went into their tiny adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth.

“Buck.”

“What’s up?” He brushed his teeth noisily to occupy himself.

“Can we talk?”

“In a minute.”

He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Steve hovered in the doorway, leaning against the frame, appealing to Bucky far too much in those loose boxers, all tanned, toned skin and muscular limbs. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know it was just one drink.”

“Well, it was.” Bucky dawdled in brushing his molars. Steve sighed.

“I just don’t want you to push things.”

“I won’t,” Bucky insisted through a mouthful of foam. He went back to his molars, then brushed his tongue.

“Sometimes, you act like you forget you’re a diabetic,” Steve mused.

“Stevie. I _remember_. Trust me. Finger pricks and shots won’t let a guy forget.”

“Sure. Guess they don’t.” He shoved himself away from the doorframe and headed for bed. His voice was hard, and a bit hurt. Bucky frowned, spit, and rinsed. He slapped off the bathroom light and sat on the edge of the bed, where Steve was already lying on his back, hands laced together over his abdomen.

“You don’t always have to worry about me,” Bucky told him. Steve’s sigh was heavy and said otherwise. “You don’t have to fret so much. I’ve lived with this for a long time, babe.”

“Sure you have.” 

His voice held a brittle edge. Bucky tentatively stroked his leg.

“What’s wrong, Stevie?”

“It’s just… hard.”

“What?”

“I remember what it was like when Mom would have one of her episodes,” Steve said, voice low, and to Bucky’s surprise, just… _sad_. “They always scared me. Dad was already gone. He’d been gone for a while.” Bucky’s hand stopped its motion when Steve cleared his throat, but his voice sounded a little hoarse, anyway, when he continued. “She was Type I, too. Really brittle. Her sugar was always pretty touchy. She used to keep a lot of Tang and Kool-Aid in the house and would get mad at me if I drank it all. I got good at making her some when she would bottom out.” 

Bucky continued stroking him. “I bet.”

“Yeah. Once, I had to call the paramedics. She taught me that I might have to. She took a nap, and she wouldn’t wake up. I was seven.” His words were slower, more strained, and he licked dry lips. “I was scared out of my mind. They gave her some glucose and brought her out of it. But they were in the house, in their uniforms and with oxygen and blood pressure cuffs and equipment, and I was so scared, Bucky, I didn’t know what to do, because I just wanted them to help my mom. She was all I had, and-“

Bucky laid down beside him when he saw the first tear roll down. Steve rolled to his side to face him, and he cupped Bucky’s cheek. “I lost her when I was sixteen, Bucky. I lived with my aunt for a little while so I could graduate, and I transferred from my JC once my financial aid kicked in. But I had no one. Mom… she was home alone one day. She’d worked a night shift at the hospital, and she was really tired. She slept through the afternoon, and I didn’t think anything of it. I left her the other half of the oatmeal on the stove before I left for school.” He exhaled a shaky breath, and another tear dripped onto the comforter. “She hadn’t touched it. She was just too tired. She’d been burning the candle at both ends, and she fell into a coma.”

“Stevie.” Bucky flicked away the next tear, reaching to knead Steve’s neck to soothe him, but his eyes were so red, and he was sniffling, looking wrecked and caught up in his loss as though it were fresh and raw. 

“She left me before I was ready to let her go. I didn’t take care of her, Bucky.”

“Steve. No, Stevie. Don’t think that. Don’t _ever_ think that.”

“I didn’t take good enough care of her. I loved her so much, and…”

“And she loved you, and you did what you could,” Bucky told him, his voice a gentle scold. “Listen to me. Listen, Stevie. Look at me. You couldn’t help what happened. You couldn’t. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t there!”

“You had to go to school. She was tired. You left her something to eat. And she loved you for it.” Bucky slid his hand up from Steve’s neck to cup his cheek. Steve shuddered, sighing and closing his eyes, and he leaned into the caress. “She loved you. She never would have wanted to leave you.”

Steve was crying unchecked now, and Bucky enveloped him, despite how muggy it was in their room.

“Maybe you hate it when I ride your back. About your shots. About everything. I can’t lose you, too.” And Steve was holding him so tight, hands stroking over him like he was precious.

“You won’t,” Bucky said, and he had a tight grip on Steve, too, needing the contact to ground him, and because with Steve, he felt safe, felt like he belonged. And his heart was so _full_ , and Bucky heard a thousand different pieces crashing into place as it hit him that this wasn’t Nat’s spell. This wasn’t just a snapshot of the future, or of _a_ future. 

This was what it was to love Steve Rogers with every beat of his heart.

“Ever think you could do better?” Bucky asked, because it was a nagging, mean little thought that kept rearing its head the longer he settled into what he had with Steve, the more Steve fussed over him, cared for him, and genuinely respected and loved him.

Bucky felt Steve shake his head where his was tucked under his chin. He squeezed him even tighter, and Bucky felt his lips pressing soft kisses over his hair.

“You’re the only one for me, Buck. You’re the only one that I’ve _ever_ wanted.”

Steve’s neck felt cool and damp when Bucky raised his head to stare down into his face, and his eyes were red and watery, too, but before Steve could ask him what was wrong, Bucky leaned down and kissed him. It was a soft, lingering caress, and it felt so natural and right when Steve’s hands framed his face, holding him there and giving in to the pull between them. 

Bucky’s voice was shaky. “I love you, you punk.”

“I thought we were finished with pet names.” But his smile was glowing. Loving. 

“Oh, that’s a pet name to you, huh?”

“Yeah, it is. Jerk.” He leaned up and kissed him, nipping at his lower lip, and Bucky groaned in response. 

“Don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, pal.”

Steve surged up and kissed him, and Bucky’s body began to respond when Steve’s tongue swept inside his mouth. Beneath him, Steve ground his hips up, and Bucky felt that he was already hard. Bucky’s hand was unsteady as he reached for the lamp to turn it off, and the room felt slightly cooler. Steve rolled Bucky to his back and took control, taking his sweet time drinking lazy kisses, rendering him incoherent.

“I love you, too, jerk,” Steve muttered into the column of his throat, and Bucky was lost, straining against him, leaning his head back to give him better access. Steve was doing wicked things to him with that mouth, tracing the taut column with his tongue. Bucky’s fingers curled into his hair, tugging on it, and Steve rewarded him with a low growl. 

"Too long," Steve husked. "S'been way too long, Buck. You feel too good." Kisses. More kisses mapping out his body, stroking every nerve ending and making him shudder beneath Steve, craving his touch. He followed the divide of his pecs, ribs, the slight curve of his abdomen – his husband kept him well fed – and he lingered over the waistband of his boxers. Bucky writhed as he kissed him through the fabric, then caught the elastic band between his _teeth_ …

_Damn it, Steve_

…and tugged them down roughly, scraping down past his cock, down his tapered thighs, eyes hooded as he stared up at Bucky, so much desire there that Bucky was about to come right then. He hovered over him, kissing his way north this time, nipping at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, soft puffs of breath misting over his skin, and Bucky made an obscene noise when he nuzzled his sack. He mouthed at his balls, then lapped at them, anointing them with lush, slick strokes of his tongue. Bucky’s hips jerked, but Steve held them down and had his way, settling between his thighs and taking him apart. He lapped lazy figure-eights around each supple globe and gently took hold of his cock. Bucky was sensitive, writhing, arching, and he grew more vocal as Steve lapped his way up, following the tender vein to the top, then engulfing the head in his wet heat. Bucky groaned at the feel of him, and Steve’s voice thrummed through his flesh as he took him down his throat.

"Okay," Bucky rasped. "Okay...Steve, that's, that's too much, I'm gonna come if you d-“

“Mm-hm,” Steve agreed around his aching flesh, and his face was rapturous, cheeks hollowed, and Bucky decided it might be better not to argue with him.

So. Much. Better. Not. To argue.

He brought him to climax in mere minutes, left him a limp, sprawling wreck. Bucky stared up at the ceiling, his expression blissful as Steve stretched out beside him. Bucky took his hand and laced their fingers together, tipping his face up to him for a slow, relaxed kiss. “I think I need a time-out,” Bucky muttered, panting. Steve grinned, kissing the crown of his shoulder.

“Why? You didn’t do anything bad.” They both snickered; Bucky kissed him, his need to smile making it difficult.

“Just let me catch my breath.” Steve gave him a pitying look, puppy eyes and all.

“For how long?” Steve cupped his face and kissed a line down his cheek, revisiting his throat, and Bucky felt himself twitching and stirring again. He glimpsed down and noticed that, yup, his husband was hard. And damned impressive.

“Not-not that l-long, _oh God_ , Steve, _Steve_ -“

Bucky was rolled to his side, and his husband’s arm clamped itself around his waist, holding him just where he wanted as he ground against him, and Bucky reached up and gripped his nape, hearing Steve’s heavy breathing mesh with his own rough pants. Bucky tilted his hips, angling back against him and groaning at how good it felt. Steve toyed with his nipples, teasing them into hard little peaks, suckling on his neck, his ear, the slope of his shoulder as he ground, and ground, and thrust.

“Lube,” Bucky murmured.

“No more time-out?” Steve was already reaching down to tease his crease, gently stroking the snug pucker.

“No! I’ll be good, I’ll be so good… Stevie, please. Please.” Steve reluctantly released him, and Bucky whined for a moment until he heard the brush of the side table drawer and the sound of the bottle being uncapped. Then Steve’s firm bulk covered his back again, before he could feel bereft of that contact, and he felt the nimble, blunt digit smoothly enter him, slick and cool. 

“So good for me,” Steve agreed. “God, Buck…” Their combined breathing was heavy and shaky as Steve readied his very willing husband, who was tilting his ass back into the probing thrusts, tensing at first at the entrance of a second finger. Bucky’s face was a rictus of pleasure as Steve found his sweet spot. Bucky felt Steve behind him, leaking a little and so stiff, straining against him.

“Please.”

“Be good,” Steve chided, but his voice was fond and dark with lust. Bucky felt the ring of muscle spread and cramp as a third finger made its way inside of him, and he bit back his cries, not wanting their children to hear him. Bucky wondered why Natasha had decided to drop them into this point in time, when they were already parents. Had there ever been a time in his relationship with Steve where they had been able to make _loud_ love? He wished they hadn’t fast forwarded through that part.

He could ponder that later. Right now, he was thankful for his husband for rolling him onto his back, wrapping his legs around his torso and thrusting into him hard, driving the air from his lungs in a rush. He was even more thankful that at some point in their marriage, Steve talked him into spending the extra money on a memory foam mattress that didn’t have noisy springs. Thank God for practical husbands. It was erotic, watching the motion of Steve’s muscles as they contracted, the sharp snaps of his narrow hips, and seeing the lust there. It all belonged to Bucky. He clutched the pillow beneath his head, digging his fingers into it as Steve drove into him.

_James Barnes-Rogers._ The name beat like a tattoo in his head. _James Barnes-Rogers._

Bucky was falling over the edge again, hard and leaking, feeling his climax building in the base of his spine, and Steve was close, too, skin gleaming with sweat. His sac was drawn up into a hard ball, slapping Bucky’s ass, and his arm muscles were straining, veins taut and standing out along his skin. Bucky’s hands slid up over them, gripping his shoulders and holding on for the ride when Steve continued to pound into him, pace never faltering until Steve grated out a low, desperate whine. He stuttered, then picked up the pace again, just a few more hard, driving thrusts that had Bucky howling against the pillows, jerking and shuddering as he came. He painted them both with milky, slick streams when Steve reached down to help him through it, pumping Bucky’s rosy, stiff cock in his hot fist before he found his own pleasure. 

Beautiful. So beautiful, watching Steve come, back arched, muscles taut as a bowstring, skin suffused with color. He was glowing with sweat and staring down at Bucky in wonder. His hips jerked of their own accord as he warmed Bucky’s insides with his release, rocking forward on his arms, which were wobbling until Bucky reached up for him. Steve gratefully collapsed. Bucky disengaged his legs gingerly from his torso and they sagged into each other’s embrace, lathered and breathing hard. The ceiling fan beat down on them, beginning to cool their sweat. Steve and Bucky felt limp, spent, and content. Their kisses were no longer urgent; Bucky reluctantly released Steve again just long enough to let him get them a glass of water to drink and a cool rag to clean them both off.

They sank back down onto the cool sheets, sprawled together, heatbeats leveling off to a slow, synced pace.

_James Barnes-Rogers_. He was where he belonged, if he would just let it happen.


	5. That Old Black Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present and the future become blurred; Bucky isn’t certain which is which.
> 
> He doesn’t want either one without _Steve_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this and leaving comments and suggesting head canons for this fic. It’s been fun talking to you about it.
> 
> I apologize in advance for this chapter. Lots of soft, fluffy smut, followed by a "Somewhere in Time" moment that made me feel like a very, very evil girl. I'm a very terrible girl.

_“Just a few easy words, from you to him. ‘Maybe we should go back to how we were, Steve.’”_

Nat’s revelation haunted him, distracting him from small things. He managed to nick himself shaving when Steve caught him, blade poised for another stroke and just staring off into space. Bucky decided it probably wasn’t wrong for Steve to freak out over the tiny rivulet of blood that streaked through the film of shaving cream down his throat; sprinting full-tilt to the linen closet to get him a washcloth was probably a little dramatic, though.

He heard her words, delivered in her wise deadpan while he took a turn making dinner. He was usually fine with Steve cooking the majority of their meals, even though he was certainly capable. He was daydreaming over the stovetop of simmering pots and managed to scorch the chicken. Steve teased that it was almost “Cajun blackened” and told him they needed to charge the public accordingly. Bucky laughed it off, voice hollow, and ordered out for pizza. Steve’s arm around him jostled him and his grin was warm, but Bucky wasn’t reassured.

He went through the motions at work. What he was doing felt appropriate, worthwhile. Relevant to who he was. But he wondered, how had he worked his way here? What kind of jobs did he have to fill the gap between graduation and a door with his name on it? When did he tell his family that he was in love with Steve? When did he and Steve make the decision to use a surrogate and start a family?

Having daughters – being a father – felt so organic to him now, so natural that he never thought to wonder how they arrived there until Steve sank down beside him on the couch and asked, “What do you want to get for Sharon’s birthday?”

“Sharon?” He drew a blank, and Steve huffed.

“The sweet woman who lent us her womb? Blonde, sweet and sassy? Our surrogate?”

“Oh. Uh… right. Whatever you think she’d like, babe.” Bucky scanned channels with the satellite remote as though everything was peachy, but Steve gave him a weird look.

“The girls want to make cupcakes for her.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’d still be nice to get her a gift.”

“That’s fine, Steve.”

“I figured you’d be on it. You were the one who introduced us when we were screening possible-“

“I know,” Bucky said, chafed. Even though he didn’t, and it was driving him nuts. “We’ll go pick something out.”

He had no clue at all what to get for the woman who carried your children for nine months but who wasn’t their mom. What was the etiquette for that? Did Hallmark even make a card for it?

“It’s been a while. The girls have gotten so big since they saw her last,” Steve mused. “I think Winnie was barely walking.” His voice was fond.

“She’s not gonna believe her eyes,” Bucky agreed. Winnie was three going on thirty, opinionated, and acquiring the bossiness that came started rearing its head at four. She was so much like him, despite being the younger sister, she was very protective of Sarah when they were around other children, always making sure her big sissy had the best crayon or the cookie with the most sprinkles on it after thoroughly perusing all of the ones on the plate. Of course, that also meant she was jealous of anyone who attempted to horn in on any game that the two of them were playing together or tried to steal her sister’s attention. Bucky guiltily realized that he should discourage that, but he couldn’t _blame_ her. Sarah was a sweetheart just like Steve. _Everyone_ adored Sarah. Her nature was a little more tractable, but sometimes, Bucky and Steve had to remind her that they were the adults. But the four of them just _fit_.

And Steve. He was his. He filled in all of Bucky’s cold, dark, empty spaces with his light, affection and humor. They complemented each other, maybe not in the finishing each other’s sentence way, but just… it was just easy. Bucky longed to know where it began. When did Steve get to know him so intimately. When did it become instinctive for him to randomly enter a room, sit on the far end of the couch from him, swing Bucky’s feet up onto his lap and start massaging his toes when he was frowning? When did Bucky start buying bananas for Steve’s Saturday pancake recipe, even though Bucky hated bananas himself? When did he first realize that Steve made the sexiest noise when he nibbled on him behind his left ear? That would have been a precious memory, if he’d actually lived through it yet, but Nat’s spell made that theoretical and murky.

This was his life, but he hadn’t truly lived it yet. So that still left him with the impossible decision. And it hurt. Oh, how he ached.

What if he went back, and Steve didn’t want him? He ran into Nat in the parking lot of Whole Foods when he went back to the store for Steve’s bananas and a few other odds and ends. It didn’t surprise him. Clint or Nat or the two of them floated in his orbit from day to day, a constant reminder that his decision had an unspoken deadline. She honked at him while he was loading his canvas reusable shopping totes into his trunk, rolling down her window and peering at him over the frames of her Oakleys. 

“What’s the verdict?”

“Still figuring it out, Natasha.”

“Okay. This magic isn’t permanent. You know that, right?”

Bucky felt a cold knot in his gut. “What do you mean?”

“The longer you drag your feet on this, the more time will begin to lag. Things won’t progress. You’ll be stuck in a holding pattern, and Steve will begin to know something’s off. He’s experiencing things the way they would have taken their course between you if you’d apologized to him, but the magic will falter. Just small things. He’ll start to notice gaps in how things are supposed to be. Like getting lost on the way home from work, or forgetting your anniversary. The spell will grow unstable.”

“Okay,” Bucky croaked. “That’s… Nat, I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have a choice. Accept this if you want it.” Nat’s green eyes glowed, or perhaps that was just the hysteria building in Bucky’s chest making him think that. He couldn’t be certain. But she was scaring him to death. _The spell will grow unstable_. Natasha handed him a slip of paper. “Read this tonight. It’s an acceptance spell. It will lock you and Steve in this reality. You’ve gotta admit, it’s not bad. I’m enjoying it so far.” A red convertible behind them honked for Nat to move along, and she glared at them in her rearview.

“Okay,” Bucky said, frustrated and resigned. This was it. 

There was a reality waiting for him. His old self. His old body. His old life as a single student who slept through his eight AM classes and played beer pong too often. A lonely reality where he was a dick to his roommate and made him desert him.

“I just… I wish I had more time, Nat.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” And she did look apologetic. “Wish I could give you all the time in the world, buttercup. Buck up. Steve’s waiting for those bananas. Hope you remembered the sprinkles for the cupcakes.” The jerk in the red convertible leaned on their horn, and Nat looked back and flipped him off before she drove away. Bucky sighed, scrubbing his face with his palm.

He went back into the store, to the baking aisle. He’d forgotten the sprinkles.

*

 

Bucky and the girls got a move-on with the batter for the cupcakes and made a huge mess of the kitchen, but the girls were giggling, sending butter and flour flying as they lowered the Kitchen-Aid mixer blade into the bowl, leaving the kitchen counters and wall looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. Sarah picked out the leopard spotted cupcake paper liners, which Winnie carefully placed in the cups of the muffin pan, her little face solemn; Bucky waited until her back was turned to remove a few of them that were stuck together. Bucky wisely poured a small amount of batter into a large measuring cup and let Winnie fill one half the cups that way, then Sarah, knowing that very little of the batter would make it to its planned destination if he let them use a spoon. His preheated oven smelled a bit like old roast, and he made a mental note that they would need to clean it over the weekend.

The cupcakes made it into the oven, just in time for Steve to emerge from the basement with a basket of laundry. He grimaced at the sight of the kitchen, then laughed at his husband’s flour-dusted tee shirt and the girls’ sticky fingers and hands as they licked the batter bowl and beater blade clean. “Somebody enjoyed themselves,” he remarked. 

“Baking is serious business. We created a culinary masterpiece. You’re just jealous of our prowess in the kitchen,” Bucky bragged, puffing up. Sarah giggled over the edge of the beater blade. Winnie mopped her fingers through the remaining streaks of batter in the bowl, holding it up for Steve to have a taste. He dutifully swiped a drop from the lip of the bowl and hummed in approval, eyes brightening. “Ooh. That’s good. Lemon. Good choice.”

“It’s Auntie Sharon’s favorite,” Sarah reminded him, and Bucky wanted to thank her for that tidbit. He wished he had some insight into what made him pick this particular woman to make their dream of a family into a reality.

“Let’s clean up a little. Girls, go ahead and pick up the living room. I’ll go freshen up the bathroom and vacuum. Buck, you’ve got it covered in here, right?”

“Fair enough.” He helped make the mess, he’d clean it up, Bucky reasoned, and the pile of dishes and spattered counters mocked him. He set the timer on the cupcakes and they got to work, making the house presentable for the birthday dinner they planned. Steve eventually took the girls out to pick out a gift and card; Steve had been a bit annoyed when Bucky failed to give him useful feedback on what to buy, mistaking confusion for a lack of caring. Bucky straightened up and tidied the kitchen, showered, and helped get the girls dressed up, pigtailed and accessoried for Sharon’s visit while Steve vacuumed the living room, freshened the bathroom and Febrezed the couches. The illusion that civilized human beings occupied their dwelling had been achieved for the next few hours. Bucky managed to keep the girls neat, wisely piping the cupcakes himself but letting the girls apply the sprinkles and candies. When Sharon pulled up in their driveway in the pristine silver BMW, the girls shrieked and hurried to the front door, throwing it open and rushing her before she even got to the porch. 

Bucky watched his husband’s face light up, too, before he lumbered after their daughters, where they were crowding her with hugs. “You’ve gotten so big! Look at you! Hey, fellas,” she greeted them, and Bucky liked her easy smile and warm brown eyes. She was almost his height and willowy, with wheat blonde hair just past her shoulders. 

“Hope you’re hungry,” Steve told her. “Bucky made enough chicken to feed an army.”

“And we made cupcakes,” Winnie announced as she helped Sarah tug her inside the house.

“We got you a present,” Sarah added, not to be outdone. “You get to open it after dinner. Daddy said.”

“Oh. I guess we have to do what Daddy says, then.” Her tone was solemn, but she winked at Bucky. She let Steve engulf her in a hug, and Bucky gave her one, too. It clicked why his past self thought she would make a good surrogate. She was mellow, calm, and glowed with good health and cheer, and if Bucky had to put his finger on it, she reminded him so much of Steve. _Goodness_. Sharon owned it, radiated it. Bucky wished he could access a memory of what she looked like when she was pregnant, what it felt like to feel their tiny kicks when he laid a hand on Sharon’s belly. He wished he remembered how it felt to be that excited about Sarah and Winnie’s respective arrivals, and _damn it, Nat, I’m making up my mind, already!_

They had a lovely dinner. Steve showed Sharon the girls’ artwork and the photo albums and the Sarah and Winnie jabbered a mile a minute about kindergarten and preschool. Sharon just smiled and indulged them like a favorite aunt and showed them photos from her recent vacation that she took with her friend Bobbi from work. In the pictures, she was tanned and smiling from the shores of a pristine beach, from a zipline harness, from a rented Jeep with the sun setting just off the cliffs in the background. 

“So, Bucky, how’s work?”

“Huh?”

“Work. How’s it been treating you?”

“Oh.” He made a dismissive gesture as he recovered, and Steve huffed. “Fine. Eight hours out of the day that keeps me out of Stevie’s hair.”

Steve chuckled and blushed at the nickname and the claim. “Stevie” had become a more frequent thing, lately, when they were intimate. Ever since the barbecue, the awkwardness between them dissolved, and Bucky champed at the bit for the girls’ bedtime, eager to finish their stories, tuck them in, kiss them goodnight, turn on their night lights, and tiptoe down the hall to the master suite. Bedtime for Winnie and Sarah meant that Steve was waiting for him in bed in nothing but his boxers, laptop on his lap, and when Bucky would gently pull the door closed, those robin’s egg blues eyes would rake over him – Steve looked sexy in his reading glasses – and he would close the computer screen and set it aside as Bucky began to undress. Steve’s skin always smelled warm and herbal from their shower gel, and his Scope-flavored kisses made Bucky tingle. Bucky’s face was broadcasting the memory of it, if Steve’s furtive look was anything to go by.

“I want another picture of all of you before I go tonight,” Sharon told them. “Hey, Steve, thanks for the one of the girls at the fair. The one of them on that little train is my favorite.”

“I have a whole bunch more of them on my phone. Let me know which ones you want me to forward.”

“Awesome!”

“I can do a cartwheel!” Sarah piped up. “Wanna see?”

“After dinner,” Steve suggested. “And not in the house.”

“I can do one, too!” Winnie insisted.

“No, you can’t,” Sarah argued.

“Uh-huh!”

“Can NOT!”

“Can TOO!”

“That doesn’t sound like an indoor voice, Win,” Bucky reminded her, earning himself her pout. She toyed with her chicken, shoving it around the plate with her fork until Steve gave her his patented look, and then she straightened up. Sharon looked like she was trying not to laugh.

“This is nice,” she murmured. “It’s cozy here.”

“Thanks,” Bucky told her. Steve and Sharon chatted about mundane things while Bucky worked his way through dinner, still fretting about Natasha’s deadline. The girls continued to squirm and argue until Bucky asked them if they were finished. 

“I want a cupcake!” Winnie announced.

“After we’re all finished with dinner,” Steve said simply.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Sarah asked hopefully.

“Not quite yet, baby. Go ahead and clear your plates if you’re done.”

Winnie and Sarah shoved their chairs back from the table and collected their little plastic Disney plates and blunt flatware and took them to the sink. The staccato sounds of their food scraps being scraped into the bin and the clatter of the plates dropping into the sink rattled Bucky for some reason. “Push your chairs in, please.” They obeyed and scurried off to the living room, not wanting to wander far if the adults decided it was time for dessert soon.

“This seems like it’s agreeing with you,” Sharon told them.

“We couldn’t have done this without you. Happy birthday, by the way,” Steve told her.

“Thank you. Twenty-one again. I’m legal!” she quipped. Bucky smirked.

“Spring chicken,” he remarked.

“Yeah, funny thing about that. Here.” She fished in her pocketbook and handed them a small envelope. Steve took it with a look of interest, carefully prying open the flap without tearing it, because he was meticulous like that. “Ooh. Heavy card stock,” he murmured. “Uh-oh. What’s this?” He grinned and handed it to Bucky.

“Wedding invite, huh?” Bucky inquired as he read the gold script. 

“Rhodey’s going to make an honest woman of me. Carol’s thrilled that she gets to be a flower girl.”

“Bet she’s excited that you’re finally marrying her daddy,” Steve agreed. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. We’re ready. It feels right.”

“You know when it does. Right, Buck?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but his voice sounded hollow. Steve quirked his brow and reached out, squeezing his shoulder in his warm grip.

“You okay, babe?”

“M’fine.”

“Rhodey said you’re both invited to his stag weekend. He booked our cabin at Lake Almanor for the weekend.”

“Have him text us,” Steve suggested. “Bucky and I drank so much when we had ours. Remember the dancer Tony surprised us with, Buck?”

“Oh, uh…” Bucky shrugged, offering a smile that he knew still looked confused.

“Must have been some night, if you’re blanking it out,” Sharon teased.

“I think I’m finished. Sharon, would you like more?” He motioned to the dishes laid out before them, holding up the bowl of roasted potatoes. 

“I’m fine,” she told him, and she said the magic words. The girls clamored up from the sofa, where they had turned on their Phineas and Ferb episodes.

“Time for cupcakes?” Winnie prodded.

“I guess we are, since everyone’s done, huh, Dad?” Steve said, nudging Bucky. He gave Bucky’s plate, only half finished, a disapproving glance before he took it to the counter beside the sink. Bucky cleared away the dinner, taking the serving plates to the counter and pulling the cupcakes out of the refrigerator. Winnie was already bouncing up and down in her seat.

“I decorated them,” she announced.

“You _helped_ ,” Sarah corrected her, and her voice was haughty. Winnie stuck out her tongue. “Auntie Sharon, you get to pick one first.”

“That one!” Winnie told her, pointing to one in the center that had a generous amount of Skittles and sprinkles poked into the layers of lemon frosting. Sharon took the lopsided cupcake, holding it with a flourish.

“Oh, my, this looks scrumptious. I can’t wait to eat this wonderful work of art. We have two master bakers, here.”

“Daddy helped, too,” Sarah pointed out.

“Just a little,” Bucky admitted, and Sharon winked at him. He winked back with a little nod. 

“Wait,” Steve told them. “Candle. Don’t forget that. Girls, we have to sing.” Steve managed to find a blue-and-white swirled candle from the junk drawer and some matches. The smell of burning wax tickled Bucky’s nostrils as they sang a slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” 

He liked hearing his husband sing. He loved his daughters’ bright smiles. Heat pricked at his eyes, and he got up from the table, needing something to do.

“Coffee, Sharon? Tea?”

“Tea’s fine, if you’re making some.” Bucky got up and fetched mugs, tea bags and honey, glad for the distraction. He felt Steve’s warm hand at his lower back.

“I can make it, if you want?”

“I’m good, babe. Go ahead and relax.”

“You tired? Seems like you’re running out of steam.” Steve’s face was concerned, and Bucky earned himself the little divot between his sandy brows, but he shook his head, giving Steve a peck on the cheek. 

“Yucky kisses,” Winnie pronounced as she peeled her cupcake and took a sloppy bite.

“Hey, I like kissing your yucky daddy,” Steve teased. “I do,” Steve murmured into Bucky’s ear.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Sharon warned, voice dry. She popped a frosting-smudged Skittle into her mouth and handed Winnie a paper napkin to wipe her mouth. Her voice was fond.

Bucky’s stomach tied itself in knots.

*

Sharon and Steve lingered by the front door roughly an hour later, scrolling through Steve’s phone.

“I want that one, too. Along with the other three. Go ahead and send them to me, please?”

“And… send!”

“Awesome! Very cool. Girls? Can I have a goodnight hug?”

Winnie and Sarah hurried forward and clung to her like little monkeys. Sharon made a contented noise as she squeezed them back. “I loved my present, my card, and my yummy cupcake. You guys have to make me some the next time you come over with your daddies, okay?”

“We will,” Sarah told her. Sharon reached out and smoothed Winnie’s hair back where it was sticking to her cheek by a dab of dried frosting.

“Take care of your daddies for me, okay?”

“We will,” Winnie promised, nodding solemnly. Then she yawned, signaling that it was time to pack it in.

“Right. On that note, I’m off. I’ll talk to you two nerds later. Call Rhodey. Get the deets from him about the cabin weekend.”

“Sounds like a great time.” Steve herded the girls against him and Sharon leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thanks for coming, Sharon,” Bucky told her. His voice was hoarse and a little tired.

“You okay?” Sharon looked concerned, too, as she gave him a brief peck. “You don’t seem like your peppy self, Bucky.”

“I think we just had an early day. Hitting the sack soon sounds pretty good,” he lied. He needed some time with his thoughts. He needed the chance to decide what to tell Steve, to have the talk he’d been dreading since Nat revealed the spell.

“Boy, you men stop being party animals once you have kids, don’t you?” she teased. “I’m out. G’night, ladies!”

“G’night, Auntie Sharon.” Sarah and Winnie gave her one more hug before Steve began to herd them toward the stairs. Bucky let her out and walked her to her car.

“You sure you’re okay? You look like you’re chewing on something,” Sharon asked as she hit the clicker on her key chain to unlock the doors. “You and Steve fine?”

“We’re good. We’re great,” he emphasized.

“Okay. Good. You guys are my blueprint, y’know that? I come here for your stability, because I’m a hot mess!”

Bucky laughed, eyes crinkling. “What does that say about _you?_ ”

“Ha, ha.”

“Hey, Sharon… what did you think of Steve and me, back when we asked you to carry Sarah and Winnie?”

“Well, you were goofy. A couple of big goofballs who seemed like they were in it deep for each other. You guys were newlyweds. You were the one who said that you said that you wanted someone who would be willing to carry two children, because Steve was an only child. That was pretty important to you.”

That warmed something inside Bucky. He just wished he remembered the discussion, that first essential encounter that changed their lives. He didn’t want to imagine a life without his daughters. 

It was more important than ever that he not fuck this up. He had to go back. He had to make amends because he owed it to Steve. He needed to be the husband and father that his family deserved, and that meant actually _living_ the life that Natasha’s spell proposed. Starting from scratch.

He needed to undo old damage. 

Bucky wanted his college roommate back. No matter what it took.

*

The incantation that Natasha had scribbled down for him was burning a hole in his pocket, but he ignored it. Steve was the one who put the girls to bed this time, and he came into their room, rubbing his face.

“I’m beat.”

“I bet.” Bucky sat on the bed, leaning back up against the headboard, clad in his tee shirt and boxers.

“Want a shower?” 

He considered it for a moment. Steve looked hopeful, and Bucky knew he was stalling, but Steve was already shedding his shirt, and he looked so tempting.

“Sounds good.” Steve grinned and headed for the bathroom. Bucky sighed as he picked up the trail of his clothes chucked them into the hamper before laying his own at the foot of the bed. Steve was fiddling with the shower dials and the bathroom was filling with steam. Bucky closed the gap between them, crowding up against his back, tracing the crest of his shoulder with his lips. Steve made a soft noise of approval, leaning into it, giving Bucky better access. Bucky coiled his arms around Steve’s waist and worshipped his skin, and he felt desire mounting inside him for his husband, felt Steve arch back into him, ass jutting back to bump against Bucky’s sex.

“You feel so good,” he murmured into his neck.

“Someone’s feeling needy,” Steve countered. “But that doesn’t mean stop.”

So Bucky didn’t.

They climbed into the shower and entered the spray. They made liberal use of the shower gel, soaping each other lazily, fingers massaging fatigued muscles and drawing streaks in the foam. Steve closed in on Bucky’s mouth, and the kisses were hot and deep and probing. Bucky loved the sounds Steve was making and his choppy breathing over the slap of the spray against the tile, loved the feel of his smooth, solid bulk beneath his hands. His hands trailed down his broad back, kneading the muscles, prying more of those fantastic noises from him, then let them settle over those hard glutes. He squeezed them, and Steve bucked his hips against him in response. Steve turned them so that Bucky’s back was under the spray and worked some shampoo into his hair, tugging it, combing his fingers through, caressing away stray bits of foam before they could run into his eyes. Steve’s hands felt heavenly in his hair. He tipped Bucky’s head back to rinse, then leaned forward and lapped at the column of his throat. Bucky’s arms tightened around his waist, still gripping his ass, and their hardened flesh strained between them, needing attention. Steve nipped at his neck, lapping a hot trail down his chest, down his belly, where he paused to tease his navel with the tip of his tongue; Bucky shivered and gripped Steve’s hair.

He was vocal – he wouldn’t have risked it if they weren’t in the shower, and thankfully the spray helped drown him out – when Steve reached his cock, breathing over it, caressing Bucky’s engorged flesh with his cheek teasingly before drawing him into his mouth. Steve felt Bucky’s legs buckle from the sensation of it, and he urged him back against the shower wall. He gripped Bucky’s thighs and slowly began to bob his head, cheeks hollowing out and eyes drifting up to see the effect he was having on his husband, then shuddering in pleasure at his taste. Bucky combed his fingers through Steve’s hair, damp and dark as honey, and he took Bucky to places he couldn’t even describe. All he knew was Steve’s mouth, his touch, the low thrum of the sounds he was making traveling through him. Bucky couldn’t manage coherent speech, but his lips formed the words, “Fuck, _Steve_ , oh, God” on breathy, nearly soundless rasps. Tension built inside him, and his muscles were taut and straining while Steve loved him with his tongue, taking him down his throat. Steve made a slightly choked, huffing sound, then groaned in rapture at being filled up, taking Bucky to the hilt and feeling Bucky respond, twitching and oversensitized from how good it felt.

He came shuddering and crying out, slapping the tile wall behind him, body jerking and arching over Steve, who was drawing it out, lapping him up, tongue swirling over him as he cleaned him up. He kissed the spent tip and leaned his cheek against Bucky’s groin with a sigh. “Better?” Steve asked.

“Uh-huh. Think so.” He gave Steve a bleary smile and reached over to turn up the hot water. Bucky glanced down and saw Steve’s swollen, rosy erection as he stood.

“I think I’ve had enough of a shower. Let me tuck you in, sweetheart.”

“There he goes with the mushy pet names again, I swear,” Bucky muttered, but he kissed Steve’s smirking mouth. 

“Can’t help myself. I blame you.”

“Don’t blame me for inspiring sap,” Bucky retorted, but he gave him a searching kiss, hands framing Steve’s face.

“C’mon,” Steve husked, and his eyes were still dark with passion. “I’ll get the towels.” 

They took turns drying each other’s backs, and Steve was still feeling frisky, paying extra attention to Bucky’s parts that “needed drying” and leading him to the bed. 

“On your belly. Your back’s tense,” Steve insisted, and Bucky complied, even though his orgasm left him feeling like jelly. But he groaned in satisfaction when Steve began to knead out the knots in his back, rolling his shoulders, working out tense spots until his muscles felt soft and loose. Steve made a thoughtful sound.

“I can feel whatever you’ve got on your mind in your back, Buck.”

“You’re taking care of it, Stevie.”

“I like taking care of you.”

_Even though I was a selfish, inconsiderate ass and I don’t deserve this_ Bucky pushed the thought down as far as he could and focused on Steve’s hands. He was straddling his ass as he kneaded him, and Bucky felt his cock and balls crammed against him, pulsing and twitching, and his own arousal was coming back.

Steve took Bucky’s mental cue, sensing that he still wanted him, and he nibbled Bucky’s ear, lapping at the tender shell, nipping at his nape. Bucky’s hips bucked up against him, and he arched up, craning his neck around to kiss him with heat and longing, hand reaching up to cup Steve’s nape. He broke the kiss reluctantly, letting Steve urge him back onto his stomach fully, and he kissed a lingering, teasing trail down Bucky’s spine. Bucky’s groans were deep and full of need. Steve paused to take one of their pillows and tuck it under Bucky’s pelvis, tilting his ass up for easier access, and he nearly came out of his skin when he felt Steve’s hot, slick tongue slip into his crease, thumbs spreading him to reveal his taut little pucker, and Bucky’s hands twisted the covers beneath him, marveling that his husband’s jaw had to be sore by now, hadn’t it? But Steve was still making those pleased sounds, interspersed with his shallow laps and husky breathing. Bucky was fully hard again, and being face-down wasn’t helping matters. Steve was driving him out of his mind. Bucky was biting the pillow against the urge to cry out, but there was _no flippin’ way_ he was waking their daughters when he was in such a delicate position, and when Steve was getting to the good part. Bucky felt himself leaking, twitching, as Steve took care of him.

He sighed in relief some time later when Steve’s finger snaked into his entrance, slick and welcome, massaging him and making him recall the feel of his cock, how well they fit.

“You’re good to me,” Bucky croaked. “I don’t… I don’t deserve you.”

“Like hell you don’t,” Steve scolded, voice low and disbelieving. “You’re mine, Bucky.” He added a second finger. “You’re stuck with me, by the way. Til we’re both old and gray, one foot in the ground.”

And Bucky wanted that more than anything else.

But instead, he said “I need you in me. You said you were gonna tuck me in, Stevie.”

“Oh, I will,” Steve promised, voice dark and rich with lust, and he felt the head of his cock pressing against him, felt Steve teasing him with it, and Bucky was moaning again, jutting back against him for him to get on with it.

“Please, Stevie. Please, please.”

“You feel so nice,” Steve husked as he worked a third finger inside, and Bucky was arching, clawing at the pillow when he hit his sweet spot.

“Please, Stevie…”

He whimpered when Steve removed his hand, then exhaled on a low, shuddering gasp when he entered him in one smooth, hard thrust. He withdrew, then snapped forward again, and Bucky felt so full, so safe beneath him.

“Feel so good, Bucky. Feel good wrapped around me. So good for me.”

“Stevie,” he breathed as Steve continued to thrust, just slow, steady shunts, gripping his hips tight. A few more strokes, and Bucky felt himself being pulled back, up, until he was on all fours, and that changed the tilt of Steve’s thrusts and drew a satisfied sound from Steve.

“Yeah. God, Bucky… wish you could see yourself right now.” But Bucky was shuddering, skin breaking out in a sheen of sweat as Steve rode him harder, deeper, and sensation rippled through his belly. It was good, it was _so, so good_ , and Bucky clamped down on him, evoking a shuddering cry from Steve. He sped up his thrusts, rocking against his prostate, and Bucky wasn’t going to last long at this rate. 

“Oh, God, Stevie… _Oh, God, Stevie!_ ”

He was pounding into him, angling home, panting hard and Bucky barely recognized anything but his name, Steve’s voice was so strained and ragged. He felt his pace falter for a moment, then pick back up again, and Bucky reached beneath himself to relieve the tension, grasping his cock and pumping it in time with Steve’s thrusts.

“Sexy,” Steve muttered. “Go ahead. Come for me, Buck. Come all over me.”

“M’gonna,” Bucky panted, and he tipped over the edge, dribbling from his hand and spilling all over their sheets. Steve continued to pump his hips, close, so close as Bucky’s orgasm ebbed, then flared again. He saw fireworks behind his closed eyes, felt his climax dance down his spine again as Steve pulsed and throbbed inside him, then warmed his passage with his hot, slick seed. Aftershocks made his body jerk, and both of them were a shuddering mess of limp muscles and spent energy. Steve collapsed against Bucky, then slid down so that his head rested below Bucky’s shoulder blades so he wouldn’t bear his full weight. Bucky groaned in contentment.

“Love you,” Steve said between pants.

“M’glad. Ya still gotta tuck me in, though.”

“Jerk.”

“Love you, too.”

“Good.” They were still panting, but Steve rearranged them, removing the pillow beneath Bucky’s hips, wrangling the comforter beneath them out and shuffling both of them under it. Steve’s grip on him was possessive but tender, and he was kissing Bucky’s hairline, just soft pecks, and Bucky sighed. Steve reached back and turned off the bedside lamp with the knob on the cord, Bucky settled against him, and they basked in the haze of love well made, heartbeats slowing, skin cooling, and hands wandering in sleepy caresses.

“I’ve forgotten a lot of things, Stevie.” Steve yawned.

“Like what, Buck?”

“What time Sarah was born. What day of the week.”

“Noon on the dot. On a Saturday.” Bucky heard the crack of his husband’s smile in the dark.

“Good. I was wondering.”

“Winnie was born at three AM. Just because she could. That’s your daughter, Barnes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t take any credit for her being contrary. I see how you are, Rogers.”

“She’s so much like you,” Steve said through a leonine, gusty yawn. “I love her so much.”

And oh, that turned Bucky into goo.

“I don’t deserve you, Stevie.”

“Sure you do,” Steve assured him sleepily. “C’mon. Settle down, baby. It’s late.”

“That’s fine. G’night, Stevie.” Bucky tipped his face to Steve’s as he searched for his mouth in the dark, and he accepted his peck goodnight.

And Bucky waited quietly, hearing Steve’s breathing evening out, his lips falling slack, and a low snore escaped him. Bucky’s eyes pricked. He sighed again and caressed Steve, leaning up on his elbows to stare down into his face. He just picked out the contours of his face, the waves of his hair against the pillow, burning the silhouette into his memory when he closed the eyes.

He spoke the words, knowing he would never have the courage when his husband was awake, when they were both in their right mind.

“Maybe we should go back to how we were, Steve.”

He felt his whole world tilt on its ear. 

Steve jerked awake, voice fuzzy and confused, but Bucky didn’t hear his words, only saw him retreat from him, felt himself flying back, back, torn away as he fell back through time. He lost his grip on Steve, no matter how he fought to hold on. He fell. He just kept falling.

Into oblivion. Bucky never felt so empty, or so lost.


	6. Back to Life, Back to Reality…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spell, broken. Or, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for going on this journey with me. I appreciate anyone who buys a ticket for the Angsty Fluffy Smut Train. Reading your comments on this has been a lot of fun.

Darkness. Everything was dark, and Bucky was in freefall. He took the sight of Steve's bewildered face, the instinctive reach for him as he was jerked away from him, with him into the abyss. Icy terror and despair knotted his gut, and he just kept falling-

He bounced awake in his narrow dorm room cot, and a low, choked cry escaped him. The room was dark, not quite dawn, and his eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. There was his whiteboard, bulletin board full of pictures of beer pong matches and bad selfies, his laptop case on his desk. His overflowing laundry bag, which would explain the faintly funky odor, but Bucky would take care of that later.

And there was Riley, asleep across the way, back turned to Bucky and snoring softly. Because Steve wasn't his roommate.

Because Bucky drove him away.

Bucky threw off the covers and sat up, scrubbing his face with his palm. He felt stubble and a hint of dried drool along his jaw, and a quick glance in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door told him he looked like shit.

The memories. They flowed back to him in a tumble, so many flickering images of Steve, as though he were seeing him through a close-up camera lens. Sitting across from him at the breakfast table. Shaving at their shared master sink, pausing to smile at him when he said something ridiculous. Sprawling on the couch with his feet on Steve's lap. Watching how happy he was with the girls, each of them tucked on his lap for bedtime stories or applying band-aids to small hurts.

Daughters. _Daughters._ A jolt of sickening fear twisted his gut. Bucky's future wouldn't include them if he didn't fix things with Steve. That wasn't an option. Their smiles were like sunshine, their hugs were like cookies, their laughter was like music, and by God, he was getting up and talking to Steve _right now_.

"Damn it, Nat," he muttered under his breath. He went to his drawer and searched for a clean tee, but only found an old gray undershirt with a stain on it. It would have to do. He jerked on a pair of sweats, contemplated his shower shoes, then decided to skip them in the interest of being quiet when he went down the hall.

When he _sprinted_ down the hall. Bucky wasn't proud. And it was Steve. Bruce, the resident advisor, did a double take as he exited his dorm suite. "Hey, hey, Barnes! Slow it down, where's the fire?"

"Sorry," he hissed.

"The right to quiet supercedes the right to make noise," Bruce reminded him, citing the first rule in the dorm guidelines, because that was how he rolled. "People are sleeping."

"I know. I'm sorry." He hesitated by Steve and Sam's door, wavering, before he knocked. Three gentle taps. His heartbeat skipped and thudded. "Steve," he beckoned, trying not to raise his voice after a few seconds of silence. He tapped on the door more insistently. He noticed Bruce eyeballing him before he headed into the men's shower room. Then he called out again.

"Stevie. Steve!"

_C'mon. C'mon. Please answer, pleasepleaseplease._

He heard a low groan from inside, followed by shuffling footsteps and felt a jolt of hope. He straightened up just as the door clicked open, and relief poured over him when he saw Steve, rubbing his eyes, then giving him a bleary stare.

"What do you want, Buck?" he croaked, then coughed slightly to clear his throat. 

Bucky hugged himself out of instinct. "I needed to talk to you."

"What... NOW???"

"Please-"

"I thought for a second you lost your key and got locked out. Did Riley stay out last night?"

"No. And that's not what I wanted to talk to you about, Stevie." Riley wasn’t the type to stay out all night, anyway.

Steve huffed, looking incredulous. There it was, the divot between his brows. "Stevie?"

Bucky forgot that "Stevie" wasn't a thing with them yet.

"I mean, Steve. Sorry." Bucky shook it off. "And I _am_ sorry. I'm so damned sorry I let your drawing get ruined. I'm sorry I've been the worst roommate ever. I didn't mean for you to leave."

"This couldn't have waited til after breakfast?"

"Or any other time of the day when decent people come visiting, Barnes?" That was Sam, voice muffled but full of irritation, like he was still half-buried in the pillow. "Bad enough _this guy_ was up all night with his light on. All that scribbling kept me awake."

Because _of course_ it did. Bucky licked his lips, nervous and searching for the right words to keep Steve from slamming the door in his face. "Yeah, about that. I know I was a bad roommate. You didn't deserve all the crap I gave you, whenever you just tried to look out for me. I never respected your quiet, or your space, and I let Brock in and he went through your stuff. And he ruined your drawing of your mom."

Steve blinked. "I never told you that was a drawing of my mom."

"You look just like her. And- and you spent all that time working on it, because she was special to you, and Brock never should have laid a finger on it."

"There were problems with it, anyway. So I re-drew it." And it had to have taken him _hours._

"I can see that. You look like hell."

Steve gave him a deadpan look. "Thanks so much for your concern."

"Sorry. Guess that didn't need to be said."

"So are we done? I had my alarm set to sleep for another hour."

"That means GO BACK TO BED, Barnes," Sam informed him on a growl.

"Actually, just- just come with me."

"What? _Why?_ "

"Just come with me, Stevie."

"Enough with the Ste- HEY! BUCK!" Steve was still tired and not as well coordinated at that hour of the morning, even though he was usually an early riser. He stumbled after Bucky as he was dragged by the wrist into the small study room halfway down the hall. Bucky tugged him inside and closed and locked the door. "The RAs are gonna wonder what we're doing in here, Bucky."

"Let them wonder." Bucky sighed. "Sit down, please." Steve threw up his hands and sank down into one of easy chairs with threadbare, tweedy blue upholstery, propping his chin against the heel of his hand. His blue eyes were tired and narrowed. He shrugged.

"I moved out because it seemed like that's what you wanted, Bucky," Steve told him. "I'm kinda surprised you didn't ask the residents' office to put you with Brock or Clint."

"No. God, no. Brock has drawn dicks on my face, Steve. You've driven me home, and made sure I had a rescue snack and laundry change and that you weren't super loud when I was hung over, and it only took about a dozen times before you stopped talking to me before 7AM, and you help me keep track of my keys and my meal card-"

"That's because you seem kinda helpless, sometimes," Steve remarked, but he looked amused at the litany of his "good deeds" that Bucky rattled off. "You sure your parents should have sent you so far from home without supervision?"

"Hey!"

"M'just sayin'."

"Well- okay." Bucky eased himself back against the windowsill, resting his hip on it, arms folded. "I'm a hot mess. Okay? But I don't want you to think I'm an asshole.”

Steve's lips twitched. "Maybe not _all_ the time. It was nice when you reimbursed me some laundry soap last week and lent me some dental floss. I didn't take you for the flossing type, Buck."

"Mom's a hygienist. I floss religiously, Steve. You don't want to suffer Mom's wrath." Bucky reached up and kneaded his neck, sighing.

"A flosser. Who knew."

"I'm not a _complete_ philistine, Stevie."

"Can we _not_ call me Stevie?"

"Sorry."

"It just sounds... cutesy. Like we were a couple."

Bucky huffed a laugh, but he flushed furiously and ducked his face. Because of course that kind of thing was beyond the realm of imagination, for Steve, at this point. Bucky supposed he couldn't blame him.

"How are things with Sam?"

"Fine. He plays a lot of R&B oldies, which aren't always my thing, but nobody's perfect. Sam's pretty vanilla. And he's clean. Actually empties the trash more than once a lifetime." And that was fair, even though it still made Bucky wince.

"Sorry."

"No worries. How's it working out with Riley?"

_He's not you._ "It's gonna take a while for things to gel. He's an acquired taste."

"He and Sam got along pretty well. He did me a favor when we switched."

He did Steve a favor. By helping him to leave Bucky behind. Somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

“Well, wasn’t that nice of him,” Bucky muttered sourly. “So, you got let off the hook. Okay.”

“Okay.” But Steve winced, slightly, as though he realized that his words sounded harsh.

“I can’t convince you to come back.”

“Is that what you were trying to do, Bucky?” Steve threw up his hands. “That’s what this is about?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Bucky. Bucky.” Steve scrubbed his face with his hand, and he looked almost… torn. But, “No.”

_This is what it feels like to get punched in the chest._ Bucky never wanted that question answered for him.

“So, is that it? Did you get that off your chest? That’s all you had on your mind?”

“Yeah. I guess so. Go back to sleep, Steve.”

Bucky was disconsolate and defeated, and at this point, all he wanted to do was go back to bed, too.

*

The rest of his day was crap.

Bucky went through the motions of classes, a gym visit he wasn’t really in the mood for, and tasteless dorm meals. An attempt to get together with Clint and split the cost of a pizza failed miserably, since he was out with Natasha and the two of them went out to a noodle place instead. Somehow, Riley managed to study with his death metal blaring in the background. Bucky thought it best to head to the library, needing to be alone with the muddled mess of his thoughts.

The memories of Steve and their little family were fading, not as vivid as they were when he woke, and that made him uneasy. Natasha hadn’t said what would happen if he chose to undo her spell. That scared him more than anything else, because what if he was left with less than what they had before?

When Bucky showed up back at the dorm, distracted and not feeling like he accomplished much at the library, Riley looked up from his text book and nodded toward Bucky's side of the room. "Is that yours?" he asked.

"Is what mine?"

"That pack of drawing pencils. You don't draw, right?"

"Oh." Bucky picked up the pack, noticing that they looked brand new; another quick glance at the price label on the bottom told him that they were expensive.

"Steve's gotta be wigging out by now that these are missing," Bucky murmured. "I'll be back in a sec."

"Hope he didn't leave anything else behind," Riley agreed. "I didn't notice anything when I moved in, though. His side was pretty clean."

Bucky privately agreed as he headed down to the other side of their wing. He knocked hesitantly at the door again, but he was less concerned with volume, now. His stomach did a little flip as he waited for an answer, and he heard some low music behind the door being turned down even further, and saw a surprised - not thrilled, granted - Steve staring back at him.

"Uh, hey. Bucky. What's up?" 

Bucky held out the box of pencils. "These look nice, and somehow, you managed to leave these in our room when you, uh, moved out, so. Yeah."

"Hm. That's weird, I just bought those... didn't I?" Steve propped open the door with his wastebasket for a moment and dug into his backpack. Bucky told himself that he was _not_ staring at Steve's butt as he bent over. Not at all. "Hey, they were missing. And you said you found them in your room?"

"Riley noticed them," Bucky told him. "Maybe someone dropped them off, thinking that you still lived with me. I dunno. Glad you didn't lose 'em, Steve." He offered him a cautious smile and got a nod in return.

"Thanks, Bucky."

"No prob." He escaped quickly and heard the low click of the door as Steve went back to his studying. He told himself that he had no reason to linger or make any further small talk, but he felt bereft.

*

Natasha caught their exchange from the rear stairwell, where she'd been waiting for a half hour for Bucky to visit Steve with his missing belongings. She sighed.

"Okay. Just gonna hafta try again."

*

Laundry day. Bucky's favorite thing in the world...

He managed to nab the last empty washing machine in the dormitory laundry room and throw in half of his darks with the last drizzle of liquid detergent. Good enough. Bucky went to his room to Web surf for a bit while it agitated and studied halfheartedly for his econ exam that he had later that afternoon. He crept back in and checked his load and saw that it was spinning ominously loud, and he wondered if he threw the ancient machine off-balance. He noticed Sam unloading a dryer nearby and saw a plum opportunity to finish his wash more quickly if no one else snagged it.

"Hey, Wilson? Do me a favor, and let your stuff fluff for another minute or two?"

"Why?"

"Because my wash is almost done, and I don't want anyone else to get that dryer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're high-maintenance, Barnes."

"C'mon. Please?"

Sam sighed, but he threw a few of his items back in and loaded another quarter into it. "You owe me."

"Right. Here." He fished in his pocket and flipped Sam a quarter, which he deftly caught and shoved into his pocket. 

"I'm just impressed that you actually brought your crap down here to wash before it walked out of the laundry bag and jumped into the machine by itself."

"Yeah, yeah."

And almost as if he'd summoned him, Steve showed up in the laundry room, looking annoyed. (And really cute, even if that was no consolation to him at the moment.)

"I just had a load out of that dryer, Sam. Seen my blue Reebok socks?"

"Nope. Machine was empty when I loaded it."

"Shoot." Steve pouted and threw up his hands. "Great. Sacrificed another pair to the Sock Monster. I can't win."

Bucky smirked and ducked his face, because that was his own frequent excuse whenever he lost his own socks... and would ask Steve to borrow a pair. Bucky's machine stopped spinning with a loud thunk, and he went to empty it, checking the clothes to see if they had been wrung down enough yet, when his eye caught something. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I don’t own blue socks,” Bucky told him as he pulled out a long, royal blue pair with a white Reebok triangular logo on each cuff. “I didn’t notice these in here when I loaded it, Stevie… er, Rogers.” Sam arched his brow, glancing at Steve and mouthing _Stevie?_ Steve gave him a half-hearted glare and relieve Bucky of his soggy socks.

“Great. Now I have to dry them-“

“Just let me have them, then,” Bucky told him. “I have to dry my whole load, anyway. I can, uh, just… bring them to you, if you’re fine with it.”

“I’m fine with it.”

“Well, all right, then.”

“Okay.” Steve rubbed his nape. “Thanks, Buck.” His smile was grudging and brief. Bucky would take it. Before Bucky could say anything further, Steve fled. Sam folded his arms and gave Bucky a funny look.

Bucky filched one of Sam’s dryer sheets, so that the socks would smell fresh when he returned them. But Steve wasn’t even at his dorm when Bucky showed up. He handed them to Sam at the door and wandered off to his econ class.

From down the hall where she was talking to Yelena, Natasha sighed raggedly. Strike two.

*

"Natasha. A word.” The redhead looked up innocently from her anthology of Russian short stories and smirked.

“What’s on your mind, Barnes?”

“You know what.” He sat down and looked around them with furtive eyes, then leaned in close. “The spell.”

“Excuse me?” She frowned, and his eyes narrowed.

“Your spell. The one you put on me and Steve.”

“Have you been drinking, James? It’s awfully early…” She glanced down at her watch, and Bucky grabbed her wrist.

“Nat. Please. Be straight with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, James. Take it easy. Be a gentleman.” She jerked her hand out of his grip, and he exhaled in frustration.

“You know. I know you know.”

“You look tired.”

“Haven’t been sleeping.” And he yawned then, cupping his fist around his mouth. The sound was louder and more gusty than he’d intended. The librarian gave him a warning glance before she went back to her sorting.

“Shouldn’t keep such late nights. Bet your new roomie isn’t as much of a night owl as you.”

“It’s finals week. We’re _all_ night owls,” he reminded her. “I’m running on nothing but caffeine and the fear of losing my financial aid if my GPA drops.”

“Way to stay motivated.” Then she realized, “Hey, you’re not supposed to have that much caffeine. Have you eaten today?”

“Yeah, I… uh…” His face went blank for a moment. “Uh…”

Natasha rolled her eyes and dug in her purse. She pulled out a mangled fun-sized pack of Skittles and shoved them across the table. Bucky palmed it and slid it over into his lap, trying to hide it when he tore open the wrapper and snuck one of the candies out. He crammed it into his mouth. “That’s not real food, and you know it. Don’t wait until you collapse to eat something, do you hear me?” she hissed, green eyes stern, mouth mulish.

Bucky sighed as he chewed, enjoying the tart sweetness on his tongue, and Nat, at that moment, since she knew Skittles were his favorite. “I was gonna head over to the caf in a bit, anyway. I have my econ final, and I still have to finish memorizing an ode for my British Lit class. We’re doing recitations today.”

“God, it’s like they think we’re in kindergarten,” Nat muttered. “Which one?”

“Ozymandias.”

“Ugh.”

“So. The spell.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously??”

“Why on earth would a) I know magic, b) I put a spell on you and Steve, and c) going into detail about why I did it, even if I knew how? That’s not the kind of thing you go around announcing to your friends, James.”

“Steve and I were fighting. You said you were sick of it.”

“Well, that much is pretty accurate, I guess. Are you still fighting?”

“Not… really. Sort of.” Bucky sighed, closing his eyes. They felt sticky with exhaustion. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you’re fighting?” she asked, cocking one brow.

“I wouldn’t say ‘fighting,’ per se. Things are just… weird. It’s like, I don’t know what to say to him. And he doesn’t want to talk to me, but then we keep running into each other, and-“

“Speak of the baby-faced devil,” she mused, interrupting him and nodding toward the nonfiction aisles. There was Steve, twelve feet away, peering at him over the edge of a biography on Steinbeck. Steve noticed that Bucky was staring back and nodded, then turned away, pretending that the rest of the shelf was very, _very_ interesting.

“He still hates me,” said Bucky, dismayed.

“Pffft. No, he doesn’t. That’s not what hating a guy looks like.”

“I apologized to him. About the drawing. About Brock. He wasn’t impressed.”

“Give him time.”

“I asked him to move back in with me.”

“Wait. What?” Nat’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? You? Asked Steve Rogers to move back in, after you spent most of the semester wishing you could get a different roommate?”

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered, low, covering his mouth with his hand and glancing away.

“Can’t hear youuuuuu,” she trilled under her breath.

“Nat,” he pleaded, almost in a whine. The librarian made shushing motions with her finger to her lips, and he sank down in his seat.

“So you told him you were sorry.”

“About a _lot_ of things.”

“So you’re not a complete heathen. Give the man a cookie.” Bucky leaned forward on the table, rubbing his eyes. “Seriously. You could probably use a cookie. Or a sandwich. Promise me you’ll eat soon?”

“I know. I’m fine, okay?”

Nat watched Steve leave the aisle from the other end, exiting from the next one down, and Bucky missed the glance of concern Steve gave his back. “So. Econ final, huh?”

“And my recitation,” he added. “Can’t _wait_.”

“You’ll nail it,” she assured him. “Just don’t pass out.”

*

It was a very, very near thing.

Because of _course_ Bucky still thought he was superhuman and skipped lunch, figuring that a few Skittles would carry him through. He crammed for his econ final for another two hours, wandered through the crowd of students to class, and sat through the test sweating like cold glass. The sentences on the test sheet blurred, but he shook it off, plowing through the multiple choice questions, stumbling on the true and false. It took him ten minutes to ground himself enough to come up with an opening sentence for the first essay question. All of his facts jumbled together, and his mouth tasted like paste. Bucky shook it off and kept writing, coaching himself that this was his worst test, the rest of his day _had_ to get better.

By the time he turned in his paper and smiled back hollowly at his professor when he wished Bucky a good following semester, the sounds in the classroom, thudding feet, scraping chairs, the flap of papers being placed on the desk, all of them drifted to him through a tunnel. His location didn’t make sense to him. He lacked equilibrium. Lacked bones, lost the sensation of the floor beneath his soles, and he wondered dimly if he did well enough on the exam to balance out the three class sessions he had missed that term, right before he blacked out. Colors blurred together, gradually darkening to nothing.

*

_Bucky. BUCKY. C’mon, Bucky, talk to me. C’mon, Bucky, please. It’s okay. You fell down. Open your mouth for a minute and have some of this…_

Bucky gasped and coughed slightly at the cool, sweet fizziness dribbling into his mouth. He instinctively swallowed some, and his brain came back online. He was jostled slightly, then shifted so that he was leaning against something solid. Something… flannel.

_What the hell?_

When Bucky opened his eyes, he saw a slowly thinning crowd of students and faculty staring down at him, talking nervously. Several faces looked relieved when they noticed that he was awake, if not quite coherent yet. Bucky’s face tipped a little to the left; it was hard to hold it up, and he was scolded gently for his effort by a familiar, husky baritone.

“Take it easy, Buck. Take another sip.”

“What… hap-“

“You crashed. You burnt the candle at both ends. Nat was here a second ago and said you hadn’t eaten yet. You looked a little off when I saw you earlier in the library.”

“M’fine. M’just… tired.” That earned him another shallow tip of the soda can against his lips, and he gratefully sipped some more.

“I bet.”

“Didn’t mean for this t’happen, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, and it was so strange to find himself there, huddled against his comforting bulk, low voices around him asking him if he was okay.

“I know you didn’t, Buck.”

“Y’hate me. Don’t ya.”

“Uh-uh.”

“S’okay if y’do, Stevie.”

“Shut up and drink your soda.” And Bucky closed his eyes again, needing to rest them, and Steve’s voice seemed to wash over him, soothing all of his ills. His grip on Bucky was firm, and he realized that Steve was sitting on the floor, on the left side of the corridor, propped against the wall while he brought Bucky back around with the drink. “You’re gonna be okay, Bucky.”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Where am I?”

“Outside of your Econ class. The one you hated.”

“Shit…”

“You were coming out of it. So that means you finished your final,” Steve assumed.

“Oh, God. I fucking hope so.” And Bucky’s voice broke, and he felt hysterical tears leaking from his eyes, because he hated having crashes, and falling down, and being so damned clueless as to what happened, and waking up with people staring at him-

“Bucky, it’s okay,” Steve told him softly. “All right? You’re gonna be okay. You just need a minute. You’re gonna be fine. Take a little more of this, please.”

“M’sorry, Stevie. For everything.”

“Buck…”

Steve felt a hot tear drip onto his flannel shirt, and he hugged Bucky to him more tightly. 

*

Bucky vaguely remembered getting checked out at the student health center, the finger stick, and the FNP sternly lecturing him while she fed him some a packet of almonds and a bottle of water. He was examined for head injury and pronounced all clear. What he didn’t expect was to find Steve waiting for him in the front lobby, reading a dog-eared, ancient copy of Us Weekly. Pale blue eyes looked up in concern as Bucky wandered out, packet of almonds clenched in his fist along with his discharge slip. Steve chucked the magazine back onto the side table, and he touched Bucky’s arm gently.

“You didn’t hurt yourself?”

“Just my pride.” Steve sighed, then rushed ahead of Bucky to open the door on the way out. He had his hand at his lower back, a protective and unexpected gesture. Bucky flushed.

“I can make it on my own, Steve. I’m fine now, okay?”

“Sure. Because I’m _not_ supposed to be concerned when my roommate collapses in front of me and scares the crap out of me. I’m supposed to let you just go on about your merry way,” Steve huffed, annoyed. Bucky ducked his face, but a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. He wouldn’t argue with him that _I’m not your roommate anymore_. He just let him keep nagging. It was familiar, welcome territory. “I’ll just pretend that I have ten thousand more important things than making sure you get back to the dorm safe and sound.” Then Steve mocked a contemplative look, narrowing his eyes and bringing his hand to his chin. “Hey, wait a minute. I _don’t._ Fancy that.”

“No one says ‘Fancy that’ anymore, Rogers.”

“Shut up and watch that step.” He helped Bucky up the front two to the dorm’s front door. He hadn’t let go of Bucky yet.

*

Thursday was apparently Everybody Lecture Bucky Day. 

Nat stopped him, tucked a granola bar into his backpack, and warned him that she would _spank_ him if he ever pushed himself that far again. Clint took out his earphones and looked up from reading his comics to slug him in the arm when he sat on the couch beside him in the study. “Dude, NEVER do that again! I’m buying you all the pizza if it means you never pass out like that again. Nat wigged out. She NEVER wigs out.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, sheepish as he took out his history book and notes.

Logan caught up to him while he was shaving and told him about his older brother, John, who had Type I and lost his vision. Tony kept shoving the bowl of pretzels at Bucky when they sat for a few rounds of “Call of Duty” to relax. Sam asked him if he’d checked his numbers and taken his insulin on his way through the dorm lobby. Bucky told him that Riley beat him to the punch not five minutes earlier. Everyone in his wing seemed to be rolling him in an invisible layer of bubble wrap. It was touching, but it was weird.

Even Brock looked up from his unsuccessful effort of asking Bobbi and Carol to show up at one of his fraternity’s mixers to offer him some concern. “Barnes, you okay, bro?”

“Top notch.”

“Glad to hear it, bro. Thought someone tried to slip you a roofie.”

Because that was Brock.

And Steve?

It was weird. He just… kept running into Steve. He’d made himself scarce before, when he first moved out, and Bucky thought he was avoiding him. But he saw Steve in the dining hall at breakfast. Murmured a quick “Take your insulin?” while he was in the serving line. Then he stopped by Bucky’s table, still munching on his English muffin, and set a cup of orange juice on Bucky’s tray, then stole his cup of coffee.

“HEY!”

“Don’t overdo it,” Steve called over his shoulder as he set the cup on the dishroom tray carousel, saluted Bucky, and took off. _Bastard._ Bucky sipped his juice.

He ran into him at the gym. Steve offered him some of his bottled water and spotted him while he worked on his chest. The view from where Bucky reclined on the bench was... really, really nice.

He ran into him at the library. This time, it was _Bucky_ who caught up to him and gave him back the kneaded eraser and Copic pen that fell out of his portfolio. Steve’s smile was sheepish and appreciative. Bucky had missed it.

*

Bucky tried to catch up with Natasha again outside the student union building. Oddly, she had a black cat wrapped around her neck like a stole. The creature blinked irritated, indolent yellow eyes up at him and Natasha smirked at him over the brim of a pumpkin latte.

“Nat. You _have_ to tell me what I have to do to make things right with Steve. I need to know if I did the right thing. I need to know if Steve will eventually take me back. What do I have to do, Natasha?” Desperation filled his voice. The cat at her throat gave him a petulant, accusing meow, and Natasha reached up to scratch behind its ears. Nat sighed up at him.

“You let things take their course. He’ll let you know when he’s ready to really talk and hash things out. Or he won’t.”

“That doesn’t _help!_ ” Bucky raked his fingers through his hair. “Are you friggin’ kidding me? I thought… _Fuck._ ” He threw up his hands and turned from her. “So, I might have thrown it all away for nothing, anyway…”

“Might help if you stop thinking magic will solve anything between you and Steve Rogers, James. Adults don’t believe in fairy tales or spells or hocus-pocus. They communicate with each other. They figure each other out.” Then something occurred to her, and she dug into her backpack while Bucky fumed. “Here. Give this back to Steve. He sure is dropping a lot of things lately.”

“What…?” Bucky took the paperback novel from her. _Crime and Punishment._

“He’ll want to sell that back at the bookstore now that the semester is over. Not that he’ll get much for it, but he can use all the cash he can get his hands on.” Bucky looked blank. “He doesn’t have any family supporting him, y’know.”

“No family at all?”

“Grandparents are gone. His mom was an only child, and his dad left. You’d know all of this if you were paying attention.”

“Wait. Fuck… wait a minute, Natasha, where is he gonna go for winter break?”

“No clue.” She nodded at the novel. “Go find him and give that back to him, will ya?”

“You’re still not much help,” he called over his shoulder as he rushed off.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Nat murmured as she took another sip of coffee. She nuzzled Liho as the cat purred against her cheek.

 

Bucky headed back into the dormitory, and he noticed all of the residents in various stages of packing trunks and stripping down beds. Bruce nodded to him as he passed. 

“Don’t forget to sign out downstairs before you leave.”

“That’s fine.”

“And take out the trash for a change, Barnes!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he sniped back as he continued toward Steve and Sam’s dorm room. He knocked on it, feeling his heartbeat pick up, hoping Steve was there. What if he went home with Sam?

Steve answered the door and huffed in surprise. “Hey.”

“Your book. Nat said you dropped it.”

“Weird. I remember tucking it in my pack,” Steve told him as he took it from Bucky. Their fingers brushed, and Bucky felt his cheeks grow warm. Steve cleared his throat. “Hey, you okay? You still look tired.”

“No. I’m good. Um, hey, Stevie- sorry. Rogers, do you have anyone to stay with over break?”

“Still figuring that out. I didn’t get the intersession class I wanted.” Steve rubbed his nape. “There’s a pay-by-the-week hotel down on Ninth-“

“No. Forget it, punk. No go. You’re not going to some nasty hotel when you should be coming home with me.”

“Bucky, that’s… you don’t have to-“

“Yes. You’re coming. Pack your bags. Bring your drawing crap. All of it. My mom bakes a mean apple crumble.”

“Bucky! C’mon, I don’t want to put your family out of their way!”

“Steve. You’re _not_. And you’re not hearing me: Apple. _Crumble_. Egg nog. Pork tenderloin. Stuffing. After _months_ of dorm food. You’re the saner one of the two of this, so you can’t turn this down, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“No.”

“Uh-uh. Not accepting that. That’s just an argument, not an answer. Quit arguing with me.”

Steve’s resistance was breaking down, and the beginnings of a helpless – adorable – smile tugged at his lips. “I wasn’t expecting you to do anything like this, Bucky.”

“Well, maybe I haven’t given you much reason to expect much. And, um. Yeah. So. Apple cobbler. Egg nog.”

“I hate egg nog. But… I liked your mom. And your kid sister. You have a nice family.”

Bucky beamed. “That, I do. So. Pack up.”

“On such short notice?”

“I already texted Mom. She’s already pulling the air mattress out of the attic.”

*

Steve explained that Sam already took off after his last final the day before, and that he didn’t accept Sam’s offer - _fer cryin’ out loud, Steve_ \- either, because he already had a full house of out-of-town relatives staying under his parents’ roof, and it was going to be absolute chaos. Bucky and Steve made a final trip to the bookstore to sell back their used texts, all except for a used management book that was dog-eared and bruised beyond even the lowest resale value. “Craigslist,” Steve told him, shrugging.

“Eh.”

They loaded up Bucky’s trunk until it would barely close with their trunks and luggage, and Bucky plugged his Bluetooth into his phone and opened up his Spotify list on his phone. They talked about the easy things once Bucky turned onto the freeway, which was a relief; he worried that the ride would be silent and uncomfortable. But Steve ended up being a fun traveling partner. They played “I Spy” and Slug Bug, argued about the best eighties hair bands and nineties grunge bands, cartoon-based movie reboots, and favorite shows and games from when they were kids.

They stopped for gas, and Steve came back to the car with two less than impressive-looking hot dogs wrapped in foil. Bucky pulled a face.

“Steve. This is a _gas station._ You can’t vouch for those dogs.” But Bucky’s stomach growled audible, and Steve gave him a bland look.

“There’s protein of _some_ kind in here.”

“Roaches and rat droppings don’t count.”

“C’mon, Bucky.” Steve shoved the hot dog at him, and Bucky sighed. He unwrapped the hot dog, which actually smelled decent, and Steve handed him a limp mustard packet. He squirted on a ludicrous amount and crammed a third of the hot dog into his mouth.

“There. Happy?” he said around it.

“Ew. Yes. Overjoyed, and really grossed out. Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“You’re _welcome_.”

They ate and drove the rest of the way to Bucky’s parents’, and Steve whistled low at the sight of all the light-strewn houses and yards.

“is that Santa taking a piss off the roof?” Steve asked.

“Sure is.”

“Nothing says Christmas like public urination.”

They headed further down the block, and Bucky turned them in to a cul-de-sac, where Steve saw the mother of all Griswold Family houses and couldn’t believe it when Bucky pulled into the driveway. “No. WAY.” His mouth dropped open. “You’re serious. This is _your house._ ”

“Yep.”

“It’s like Vegas. All it’s missing is fat Elvis in his rhinestone jumpsuit.” It was garish and stunningly tacky and _fun_ , and Steve looked…

…enchanted. Amused, awed, and tickled pink. “Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“This is more than I hoped for. Thanks.” He nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “Not everybody would go out of their way like this.” And those soft blue eyes were drawing Bucky in, robbing him of coherent thought. He licked his lips when his own eyes drifted down to Steve’s smiling mouth.

He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. Get out of my car. Chop-chop.” Steve chuckled at him and piled out, helping Bucky get their things out of the trunk. He was only going to take his small duffle bag, but Bucky told him to bring his laundry bag, too, so they could do wash, dismissing Steve’s protests. “Consider it a Christmas present, Rogers.”

“I didn’t get _you_ anything. Jerk.” Bucky gave him a look. Steve’s eyes flitted away. Bucky shoulder-checked him as they hustled in the front door to get Steve to stop making that fretful face, because _really, Stevie, just stop_.

Bucky’s mother came out of the kitchen, beaming. “There are my boys!” She glomped Bucky first, giving him loud, smoochy kisses on his cheek.

“Ma! Geez!”

“Have you boys eaten yet? And there’s my other little angel!” She released Bucky and beelined toward Steve, lightly gripping him by the shoulders. “Have you been looking after this heathen?”

“Ma!” Bucky’s face was long-suffering. Steve snickered, then “oof’d!” as she hugged him tight. 

“I’m so glad you came home with James,” she assured him. “Go. Put those things in the laundry room. I set an air mattress in Bucky’s room. It’s warmer up there than it is in the guest room. There’s a draft coming in through the crawl space in there,” she explained. “I don’t want you catching a chill, Steven.”

“Oh. It’s not a problem, I can always stay on the cou-“

“No!” she interrupted, swatting him with a kitchen towel. “No, no, NO.” He knew where Bucky got his sass. “That won’t do. No couch. Besides, George always falls asleep through the movies we watch after dinner, so the couch will be his for most of the night. So, it’ll be Bucky’s room. You two should be used to it by now, anyway,” she pointed out.

Bucky stayed mum. Steve rubbed his neck and asked if Winifred needed any help doing the dishes. 

*

Steve and Bucky ran errands for Winifred, picked up Becca from school, took out the trash, tidied up the living room, and made trips to the Red Box and supermarket to pick up last-minute goodies. It was a crisp day with a couple of days’ snow on the ground, and the air smelled good, with hints of wood smoke as they drove around the neighborhood checking out the neighbors’ light displays.

“It’s nice here. You grew up here?”

“Yup. My whole life.”

“Must have been nice. We moved around a lot. My mom was a traveling nurse. She went where the work was.”

“Wow. That must have been hard.”

“Yeah. I didn’t have much of a life. By the time we got settled in enough to make a few friends, I’d have to pack up and move again. No one wanted to invite me to their houses, anyway. I was always sick.”

“Sick?” That surprised Bucky. Steve looked hearty as a horse.

“Yeah. I had some issues with anemia and asthma. I’d get fevers and bronchitis and infections at the drop of a hat. Being a nurse was an around-the-clock job for Mom, because she had to take care of me as soon as she got home, too.”

“Wow.” Bucky’s voice was quiet.

“She was the best,” Steve told him as they drove up to the park down the road from the house. Bucky reached into the back seat and took the football he’d brought out of the garage. They got out and threw a few passes just to unwind. It was nice to have a friend to hang out with over the holiday, for a change, instead of just being paraded around in front of his parents’ friends for several hours, answering all of the boring questions about his classes, GPA, his plans for after college… just the mere thought made his eyes glaze over.

And it was a treat to watch Steve winging the ball effortlessly, watching the clean lines of his body as he moved, face flushed from the cold. The snowy landscape made a brilliant backdrop for his dark blond hair and blue eyes, making him look like he stepped out of the pages of an Abercrombie catalog. They wisecracked and whipped passes through the air, working up an appetite, and Bucky suggested they head back as the sun drifted down in the clouds.

“Let’s get back so we can set the table.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Once they got home, Winifred was running in drill sergeant mode, snapping out orders to George and Becca to fetch the good plates and silverware from the breakfront in the formal dining room. 

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a party,” Steve whispered to Bucky.

“You look fine. It’s not that dressy,” Bucky assured him. But Steve still looked fretful. “Don’t worry about it. I might have a sweater or something that you can wear.”

“About that,” Winifred told them as she mixed a bowl of punch. “I have your outfits for the night taken care of, boys. I might have snuck out while you two were at the supermarket, Steve.” Mischief danced in her gray eyes, and Bucky gave her a look of horror.

“Mom…”

“I left them upstairs on your bed. We’re going to do pictures later,” she informed them. “Go ahead and arrange the flowers, Steve. You’re the artist.”

Bucky quietly, slowly banged his forehead against the kitchen doorframe as Steve looked on, amused.

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” Steve suggested.

“Steve. Look at the house. Outside. It’s about to get _way_ worse.”

*

“Way Worse” meant sweaters. With pom-poms, battery operated mini-lights, reindeer, snowmen, elves, candy canes…

“It’s like a Hobby Lobby threw up all over me,” Steve muttered later once they had washed up and changed, trooping down the stairs.

“At least we aren’t twins,” Bucky told him. “She spared us that torture. Dad put a stop to that last year, thank God.” They found Becca in the living room, already deep into the cookie platter and Red Box movies, decked out in a fuzzy red mohair sweater with a furry white collar and a snowflake appliqued on the front. She grinned at the sight of them both.

“Ha-ha, Steve has to wear a sweater, too!” she crowed. Steve stuck out his tongue, and Becca laughed at him outright. “Looks funny!”

“So does your face, brat,” Bucky assured her. Becca stuck her tongue out at him and flopped back onto the couch with a red sprinkled sugar cookie. The thing was, Steve looked cute in his. His mom got the size a little off, since it was snug, stretched out across his broad chest and back. The royal blue knit brought out at his eyes.

Bucky hoped to God he wasn’t drooling.

The next hour was a circus. Steve and Bucky greeted guests as they came in, taking coats and hats, leading the way to the bathroom, fetching glasses and mugs, playing bartender in the kitchen, and finding coasters to protect Winifred’s side tables. Every time either of them got up from their seat, it was taken thirty seconds later, so both boys spent a lot of time leaning against counters, doorframes and the fridge, answering all of the usual, boring questions. But it was still nice. Bucky wasn’t sure of whether to feel put off when Steve replied “We’re kind of an odd couple” when his aunt Shirley asked how they were getting along, living in the same dorm. But every time Steve glanced at Bucky, he had that teasing smile.

Bucky also found out that rum punch made Steve chattier than usual, and brought out a pretty flush over his cheeks. It also made him… surprisingly handsy. Steve found reasons to reach out and touch him, with a hand on his shoulder, at his back, grabbing his arm to get his attention or to help him bring out another platter of canapes. Every touch made Bucky’s face burn, sending pleased, hopeful little tingles through his body. He tried not to read too much into it, but the night was raucous and loud and ridiculous. Those quiet smiles that Steve gave him kept him anchored, filling up some cold, empty space inside him with his warmth.

_. Adults don’t believe in fairy tales or spells or hocus-pocus. They communicate with each other. They figure each other out._ Nat’s words lingered in the back of his mind. Bucky wouldn’t mind a little hocus-pocus if it would help him get on the right track to saving his future with Steve.

Winifred had her way, and pictures were taken of their guests at random throughout the house. George’s brother Hal snapped pictures of the immediate family in front of the tree, and for the third one, Winifred called Steve away from the couch, where he was sketching a little doodle for one of Bucky’s younger cousins. “Steven! Over here! Let us capture a moment for you!”

“Oh, God. I’m really not good in front of a camera-“

“Oh, come HERE!”

Steve meekly lumbered toward them, and Bucky made room for him. Becca was grinning wickedly, glad for the excuse to cozy up to him, and she linked her arm through his. “Hey,” Bucky hissed, “leggo.”

She answered him by sticking out her tongue again. Bucky lightly kicked her, but Winifred caught it before they could take any further umbrage.

“He’s _my_ friend,” Bucky insisted.

“That sounded like whining, Barnes.”

“Was _not_.”

“Get in closer,” Hal suggested as he held up Winifred’s phone and focused, gesturing for everyone to move in, and Bucky took the opportunity – because it presented itself, didn’t it? – to wrap an arm around Steve. 

“Now we fit,” Bucky told him simply, grinning.

Steve huffed. “Yeah.” They both turned to smile when Hal told them to. “Guess we do.”

The rest of the family dispersed from the tree, and Bucky realized that he still had an arm around Steve. 

*

“Need a hand in here, Winifred?” Steve asked a couple of hours later. The kitchen was piled high with depleted platters and dirty dishes and pots. Winifred waved him away from it, then enveloped him in a grateful hug.

“No. Leave it. I’m just going to put the food away and leave this for tomorrow. You two must be beat from driving for so long today. Bucky, you look ready to keel over.”

“Just don’t use me as a door stop,” Bucky teased, yawning. Steve chuckled and gave his shoulder a warm pat.

“No more burning the candle at both ends, Barnes.”

“Why? Has he been?” Winifred pried.

“Finals did me in, Ma,” Bucky admitted. “I’m ready for a breather.”

“Well, take one. The mattress is ready. Steve, there are more blankets in the hall pantry if you need them, okay, sweetheart?” She came and hugged him, and the gesture was easier for Steve this time, and his face was wistful. The sight pulled at Bucky, making him feel things that he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want. Steve might not want Bucky as a roommate again, he knew. But he could give him a decent holiday break, and happily loan him his family.

 

They staggered upstairs and divested themselves of the tacky sweaters, changing into boxers and PJs. Bucky gave Steve first turn in the bathroom, and he peeked at all of his social media feeds while he listened to him brushing his teeth. The air mattress was a twin size, unfortunately, and Steve’s feet were going to dangle off the edge. Bucky sighed. He wished he had a little more to offer him.

“Want the bed?” he asked as Steve rejoined him with another folded blanket from the linen pantry.

“That’s okay, Bucky. You can have it. I’m so done in, I’ll be out like a light in a minute, anyway.”

“My offer still stands, if you change your mind. You’re here for two weeks, pal.”

“I can manage. G’night, Buck.”

But when the lights were off, Bucky could hear every shift of Steve’s body as he fought to get comfortable on the air mattress. The vinyl made squeaking, scrunching noises, and he heard Steve’s low, brief grunts and sighs every time he twitched or flipped over. Every time he attempted to doze, Bucky heard Steve. He sighed loudly.

“Stevie? The bed’s a double. C’mon. Cut it out and come up here, please?”

“Bucky, I’m sorry. I suck. It’s a noisy mattress.”

“I know. Just come up here so we can both sleep.”

“Will that be weird?” Steve asked him.

“Nope. Not with the two of us going out like a light once we’re both comfortable. Climb on in.”

“Don’t snore,” Steve told him.

“I don’t!”

“Do, too. Sound like a buzzsaw.” Steve yelped when Bucky smacked him with the pillow.

To Bucky’s credit, they fell asleep quickly, even though Bucky felt too conscious of Steve laid out beside him, trying not to cross over the invisible line down the middle of the bed. He could still feel him radiating warmth, having a hard time avoiding the temptation of touching that smooth, flawless skin. He drew his scent into his lungs and listened to his low, even breathing. Bucky stared at Steve’s profile in the dark, watching the headlights from passing cars throw their faint flashes of light over Steve’s face. He was beautiful, and Bucky ached for what he knew they could have. His kept his eyes open, watching him, until the burning dryness and exhaustion were too much. Bucky fell asleep, wanting.

*

He woke up feeling warm and safe. Almost _too_ warm. His leg felt like it was trapped, and he felt something wrapped snugly around his ribs.

Steve’s breath stirred Bucky’s hair as he snored, and that Bucky’s eyes snapped open wide.

Morning.

It was morning, and Bucky had Steve in his bed. In his childhood bedroom, with Star Wars posters still hanging on the wall, and his old baseball trophies on the dresser, and the old, faded glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to his ceiling, and _Steven Grant Rogers was in his bed with him._ Wrapped around him like an octopus, face buried in the back of his shoulder. Steve moaned a little in his sleep, then sighed, tightening his arm around him in a little spasm.

“Shit,” Bucky croaked. “S-Steve. Stevie.”

“Hnnnh… what?”

“Uh. I-I hafta pee,” Bucky told him, and he wrestled himself free - _reluctant as hell_ \- tossed off the covers, and scrambled out of the room. The scenario was unsettling but familiar.

“Buck… what?” Steve’s voice was muffled and confused behind him. Bucky hated the sudden draft of cool air on his skin as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He quickly pulled himself out of the flap of his boxers and relieved himself, scolding himself.

“Way to go, Barnes,” he muttered. “More comfortable than the floor. _Fuck_.”

He washed up and brushed his teeth, stalling to get himself in check. Then Bucky headed back to his room, steeling himself.

Before he could find anything to say that would fix the awkwardness between them, he caught sight of Steve. Bedhead. Hair flying in ten directions. Rumpled tee. Pillow crease on his cheek and a drool mark at the corner of his mouth. Blue eyes still squinty and crusty with sleep. He was upright and slouched under the covers, holding them in a death grip.

Bucky snickered. Steve glared.

“Woke me out of a dead sleep,” Steve complained. “Happy now?”

“No worse than you every other day of the week when we have class. Sign up for some afternoon classes for a change, Rogers.”

“Holiday break is fair game for sleeping in, Buck,” and he punctuated it with a yawn, leonine and husky, scrubbing his fingers through his already rumpled hair. Bucky reached out and gingerly patted it. It sprang back beneath his hand. Steve gave him an annoyed look.

“I want a picture of this.”

“I will fight you for it. I’m not kidding.”

“C’mon, we’ll send it to Sam,” Bucky claimed, reaching for his phone.

But Steve wrestled him for it, and Bucky snickered again, feinting away, holding back the phone, twisting around to hide it behind his back. Steve pounced, knocking him back onto the mattress, and Bucky didn’t like the gleam in his eye.

“Give it to me. I don’t trust you with that, Buck.”

“What? I’ll get your good side, Stevie.”

“Oh, heck no!”

They tussled, Bucky laughing wickedly as he twisted and fought Steve’s attempts to get his phone from him. Bucky scrambled back toward the headboard, clutching the phone to his chest, then rolling over onto his stomach and shielding it from him as Steve tackled him. Then began _tickling_ him.

“Shit! Shit, shit! No. NO. STEVE.” He felt the first jolt of his fingers in his sides, and Bucky tried to roll back over, but Steve straddled the back of his legs and kept zapping him.

“Promise me no photos! No blackmail, or I swear, Bucky, I will tie you to this bed-“

“Sounds kinky, Rogers, didn’t know you had it in you- DON’T! DON’T!” 

“Oh, that tears it,” Steve grunted, but he was breathless and laughing as he tickled him, pinning his arms and snaking his fingers between his arms and ribs. Bucky was cursing and giggling into the pillows.

“Bastard! You jerk! Oh, God, you jerk! STOP! Stop, stop!”

“Say uncle.”

“NO!”

“C’mon, Buck. Call me Uncle Steve.”

“Oh, my God. You sicko.”

They continued to wrestle, and Bucky finally managed to roll him off, got some leverage, and began to tickle him back once he shoved the phone under the pillow. He bowled Steve over backward and went for his arm pits, harder than it looked because he was really, _really_ strong, and he inadvertently – maybe – grabbed his pec. Steve gave him a scandalized look.

“HEY! Grabby hands!”

“Yield. Say uncle!”

“I will _not_ call you Uncle Bucky,” Steve railed back, wheezing a little as Bucky continued to tickle him. Steve’s face was red, chest shaking with laughter, and Bucky thought he’d never seen anything sexier than Steve, and that made him stop, trying to catch his breath. He realized that he was now straddling Steve, very few clothes as a barrier between them.

“You’re a jerk,” Bucky claimed.

“You’re the jerk,” Steve countered, huffing, throwing an arm up over his head. “Wake a guy out of a good sleep when he’s comfortable.” He pinched Bucky’s leg, making him swat his hand. “Hey, your skin’s cold.” Steve’s eyes roved over him, noticing that Bucky’s nightclothes were brief and thin.

“M’fine.” But Bucky shivered at the small, gentle caress of Steve’s fingers over his knee. His hand was warm against his skin, which _was_ chilled.

“Get back under the covers, then, dummy.”

“I was gonna get…up… for the day,” Bucky told him, and Steve sighed and grabbed him, rolling him off of him and grabbing the covers in one smooth motion. He dragged the blankets and comforter over Bucky and effectively tucked him back in before he scooted himself within the warm cocoon, too.

“It’s Christmas break. You’re supposed to sleep in. Take a page from your own book.”

Bucky huffed and closed his eyes. As he began to drift back off, he could swear that was Steve’s arm drifting around him again, possessive and protective.

*

This time when Bucky woke up, it was to an empty bed. When he checked the clock, the display told him it was after ten. He wondered how long Steve had been up.

Bucky ambled into the shower and noticed one of the towels was unfolded and slightly damp where it hung to dry; Steve had already bathed and dressed, then. Bucky decided to make himself presentable. He took a quick shower and washed his hair with his two-in-one Old Spice body shampoo, and his memory flashed back to the one of his last nights with Steve when they were married. Wrapped together beneath the spray, breathing each other in, exploring each other’s body at a leisurely pace, and oh, that wasn’t helping Bucky right now. He’d barely escaped Steve noticing his morning wood earlier, but it was definitely happening now, and Bucky wondered how long he could stay in the shower to finish himself off before his father banged on the door because he was using up too much of the hot water tank.

Two-and-a-half minutes. The memory of Steve’s hands and mouth on him did the trick. Bucky shuddered and bucked into his tight grip, watching his seed spurt up over his fingers. He wanted to collapse and just bask in the relaxed haze and the looseness of his muscles, but he needed to get out and greet his family. And Steve…

Bucky showed himself downstairs, dressed in a turtleneck, heavy cable knit sweater and a stiff pair of dark wash jeans. The smell of bacon and pancakes greeted him, and his mouth watered.

“You didn’t tell me Steve cooked,” Winifred accused.

“Best kept secret,” Bucky told her, even though it wasn’t something he’d known about him until recently, through Nat’s vision of their future. “He’s a talented guy.”

That earned him a smile over Steve’s shoulder, and it lingered on his lips while he continued to flip the contents of the griddle and his frying pan. “Gotta earn my keep,” Steve mused.

“Ridiculous,” Winifred argued as she gave him a one-armed hug. “You will do no such thing while you’re staying here. Make yourself at home, Steve. We’re so glad you came home with Bucky.”

“You don’t even have to come home next time, Bucky, you can just send Steve,” Becca suggested, earning herself a flick of Bucky’s fingers. “Ow! Mom! Bucky’s flicking me!”

“Brat,” he muttered as he stole a piece of bacon off of her plate and ducked out of her way when she went to swat him.

“Welcome to my circus,” Winifred told Steve. He chuckled and accepted the fond circles she rubbed on his back.

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so I missed this,” Steve told her as he plated the food and began pouring more batter onto the griddle. Bucky munched on the bacon where he leaned against the counter, and the sight of his mother easily accepting him _did_ something to him. Steve looked happy and comfortable in his parents’ kitchen, an instant fixture, as though he’d always belonged there.

Breakfast was leisurely. Steve gave him a questioning look when Bucky filled his mug with coffee. “Don’t overdo it,” he reminded him.

“One cup won’t kill me. And I even took my shot,” Bucky told him. “No shaking your finger at me like you’re my grandpa, Grandpa.”

“I hope you’re eating well at that dorm,” Winifred told him. “Honestly, Steve, Bucky sometimes acts like he doesn’t have diabetes.” Steve cocked an eyebrow at him, curling the corner of his perfect mouth.

“I’d never have guessed,” he deadpanned. 

Bucky threw a crumb of pancake at him. Becca snickered into her cup of cocoa.

“Ooh,” Winifred said. “Becca, go put on your shoes. You look like you’re finished, so you’re coming with me. I still need to pick up a couple of things at the galleria.”

“Mom, are you nuts? It’s going to be a madhouse today!” Bucky was spooning sugar into his coffee, and he felt Steve stop his dip for more with a little nudge. “Excuse me, Sugar Police!”

“Don’t overdo it.”

“I’m _not_.” Bucky stirred his coffee and took a sip. Okay. So it was a dental visit in a cup. He _liked_ his coffee sweet.

“I just need to pick up a couple of things and hit the dollar store and Target for some gift wrap. We’re going to wrap presents in shifts.”

“Works for me,” Bucky said.

“Hey, Buck? Can we hit the framing store?”

“What? Like a Michaels, or Aaron Brothers?”

“Aaron Brothers. Michaels will be worse than the galleria right now.” Bucky didn’t want to be stampeded by crafters fighting for the last paintable Christmas ornament or cinnamon-scented pinecone. 

“Works for me.”

Steve and Bucky made short work of the dishes and took out the trash. That earned Steve another hug, and Bucky noticed that he practically glowed. They bundled up in their heavy jackets and waved goodbye to Winnie and Becca as they climbed into the family SUV. They wove their way into the growing traffic and headed toward the strip mall, finding a decent parking spot outside of the framing store. Bucky and Steve shook their heads at the crowds of shoppers still pouring into the Best Buy and Old Navy stores next door.

“Getting it done at the last minute,” Steve mused.

“What are we getting here, anyway, Rogers?”

“A frame,” he said, and his expression was sheepish. “I’m gonna sketch out something for your mom.”

“Oh, Steve… you big goof. You don’t have to worry about it, Mom won’t expect anything-“

“I want to give her something. Your mom is awesome, Bucky. She really is.”

“She might send us on more errands, y’know. You might not have time to draw.”

“I can make time.” They headed inside the store and looked at frames. Despite the sale signs, a lot of them still looked pricey to Bucky.

“What size, Steve?”

“Eighteen by twenty-four. That’s the size of my drawing pad,” he told him.

Bucky winced at the prices of that size. “Just get a simple one, then, okay?”

“I want to get a decent one,” Steve argued. “Would she like light wood or dark?”

“Whatever you think would look best. You have a better eye for these things, Steve.”

“Buck,” Steve grumbled, and Bucky had earned himself the little divot between Steve’s brows.

“Seriously? You trust me and my opinion?”

“Well, now that you mention it-“

“Asshole.” Bucky slugged him in the shoulder, but then he added, “A dark one might be nice.”

“Okay. That helps.” That narrowed it down to three on the display. 

“That one with the hematite finish is nice. It’s cheaper than the wooden one,” Bucky said, pointing to one of the metal frames. “You have to assemble it, but that’s easy for you, right?”

“Yeah. It really is. That one?”

“It’s nice.”

Steve nodded, lightly clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “I trust your judgment. I like it. I do.”

"Then grab it and we’ll go. You need time to draw.”

“What would your dad and sister like?”

“Oh, Stevie… don’t worry about it. You don’t have to go to the trouble.” Now Bucky was fretting, because Steve had a tight budget. He could barely afford his meal plan at the cafeteria.

“Just a little something for them to find under the tree, Buck, c’mon.” They rang out at the register and Bucky carefully put the frame bag in the trunk. 

“That means a trip to the galleria, then. Becca is easy. Any frou-frou little thing from Claire’s will work. She’s a nail polish freak. Dad likes… socks.”

“Bucky, really?” Steve gave him an “are-you-shitting-me?” look. 

“He does. It’s a safe gift. It’s one of those things that he always needs but never buys himself.”

“Just seems like a cheesy gift,” Steve murmured.

“What do you usually get your dad, then?”

Steve blew out a gusty breath. “Okay. We’ll get socks, then.” And Bucky realized that he screwed up again, and that this was another conversation they hadn’t had.

“He likes the ones at Penney’s,” Bucky told him. “Stay away from prints.”

*

They finished up at the mall quickly and beat Winifred and Becca home. “What would your family like for lunch?” Steve asked as they hung up their jackets and boots in the foyer.

“Leftovers are fine.”

“How about a casserole?”

Was Steve even for real? “A casserole? You make casserole?”

“Uh-huh. It’ll only dirty up a couple of pans, at the most. Won’t make a big mess for your mom.”

Bucky then watched his roommate – former roommate – make his way around the kitchen, chopping, sautéing, and layering up a fantastic casserole from Tupperware tubs and cans out of the pantry. By the time Winifred and Becca made their way inside from the driveway, weighed down with more bags than she had planned on bringing home, the house smelled delicious.

“Take these,” she told Bucky, handing him the bags with gift wrap tubes protruding from them. “Don’t tell me you boys made whatever that is?”

“I want some,” Becca piped up. “Steve, how do you know how to cook?”

“Picked up a few things from my mom while I was growing up.” 

“Bucky, we’re keeping him,” Winifred announced. “Becca, set the table.”

*

They managed to get the kitchen back in order before Winifred spread out the gift wrap and shopping bags. “Okay, Becca, you go first. Hurry up and finish, and then it’s Bucky’s turn.”

“I’m gonna go upstairs and rest for a little while,” Steve told her, which Bucky knew was code for “I’m gonna work my ass off to draw your present.”

“Oh, by all means, go rest!” Winifred patted him. “Bucky, go bring down your gifts.”

“In a minute.” He followed Steve upstairs, stopping him at the landing. “Want me to get the bag from the trunk?”

“In a little bit. Wait til your mom gets going with her own wrapping, and you can sneak it inside.”

“Works for me. Are you gonna have enough time?”

“I should.”

“What are you gonna draw for her?”

“I’ll improvise. It’s a secret, jerk.” Mischief danced in those light blue eyes.

“Hmmmmm. I don’t know if I like your secrets, Rogers.” He followed Steve into his bedroom and flicked on the desk lamp. “You can set up here. There’s my laptop, if you want any music, okay?”

“That’ll work.”

“No one will ruin this drawing, this time,” Bucky said, and there was a disparaging note in his words. 

“Hey, Buck. Bucky. No, it’s… don’t. Water under the bridge, okay?” Steve clenched his hands, looking like he was deciding what to say next, closed his mouth on his first choice. Then he reached out and took Bucky’s arm in a gentle grip. “I was angry, okay? I’m sorry. I was in a bad place.”

“I still didn’t treat you very well, Rogers. I kinda get it if you were done with my shit.”

Steve huffed. “Wait… no. Not, not _done._ I just needed… space, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“I was mad. And I kept wondering. Kept thinking that, maybe you were tired of living with _me_.” Steve let go of him, but Bucky’s body protested him ending the contact between them. Steve’s voice held doubt and a hint of frustration. “I know we weren’t exactly compatible-“

“Steve.”

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up with that shit.”

“Okay, Bucky…I’m sor-“

Bucky couldn’t listen to any more of Steve taking any of the blame for why they went to separate rooms, and he took Steve’s shoulders and leaned in, stealing away the rest of his apology with a kiss. Steve made a startled sound against his lips, and the feel of them was so familiar, something Bucky craved so much. The kiss was tentative at first, just a soft brush of his mouth, but Bucky realized what he’d done; it hit him that Steve might not welcome that gesture from him y-

When he backed away from Steve, the blond’s eyes were blown and dark with need, and he reached for Bucky, clasping his waist and kissing him without further discussion. Oh, how Bucky had missed this, feeling like he had the unfair advantage of knowing how Steve kissed before this happened, and he moaned at the way Steve’s hands tightened on his waist as the kiss deepened instead of pushing him away. Bucky slid his arms around Steve’s neck and followed Steve’s lead, letting him take what he wanted, tasting Bucky, giving in to the mutual hunger between them.

They broke the kiss, panting, and Steve was flushed, so many questions in his eyes. Bucky liked his lips, feeling his body tingle. “You know I’m not mad anymore, right?”

“I hope not,” Bucky said softly. 

“Okay. Just so we’re clear. I’m not mad.”

“So, we’re friends?”

“Shut up, Bucky.” Bucky’s snicker was cut off by Steve’s kiss. And the next. And the next.

“You’re not gonna - _mmmph_ \- gonna get your drawing done, Rogers.”

By the time Bucky unlocked his bedroom door and they returned downstairs, Winifred and Becca had both already finished wrapping their gifts. Steve and Bucky were rumpled, tousled, and flushed. Bucky snuck Steve the keys to his car while he distracted his mother with a trip into the basement to their deep freezer so that Steve could get the frame.

*

Steve stayed up until almost dawn that night, working quietly on the drawing as Bucky slept, despite Bucky’s yawning protests that he come to bed. He _really_ wanted Steve to come and resume their cuddling from that morning, but Steve was determined. Bucky drifted off to the scratching of Steve’s pencils, the sight of him bent over the desk his last sight before he knocked out.

*

Christmas morning found them tangled together under the covers again. Bucky guiltily eyed the unused air mattress, folded up and tucked back into its box across the room. On the one hand, he felt guilty that his mother went through the trouble to bring it down from the attic. On the other hand, Steve felt so good wrapped around him, one strong leg thrown over Bucky’s and his head tucked under Bucky’s chin.

He kissed his brow, brushing back his rumpled bangs. “Wake up, Stevie. It’s Christmas.”

“Uuurrrggghhh…”

“You didn’t need to stay up that late.” He felt Steve’s sigh rock through his whole body, and the sleepy press of lips at his collarbone. Bucky’s arms tightened around Steve, and he felt something hard press into his thigh.

"But it’s done. Framed it. Wrapped it. S’downstairs,” Steve slurred.

Bucky growled under his breath. “Goof. I told you that was overkill.”

“Jus’ hope… Mom… likes it,” he slurred, yawning and stretching against Bucky.

And Bucky melted into a puddle of goo.

“She’s gonna love it.”

Bucky let Steve sleep a little longer in his arms, just listening to him breathe over the faint chirps of birds outside and the sounds of his mother moving around in the kitchen downstairs. He heard her perking coffee and taking a few things out of the fridge. Bucky basked in the peace of his bedroom, familiar mattress sagging beneath their bodies and Tide-scented sheets tangled around them. His heart felt full and he was just so happy and relieved and he didn’t know what to even do with himself right now.

He settled for letting his eyes drift shut for a little while longer. If he was dreaming, Bucky wasn’t ready to wake up yet.

He didn’t know how long it was when he heard Becca rapping on his door, right before it creaked open.

“Mom says to come down already, Bucky.” She gave him a puzzled look at the sight of Steve cuddled against him.

“Coming,” Steve murmured. “Thanks, Becks.”

“Oh. Kay.” Bucky caught her look of amused surprise before she closed his door and escaped down the hall.

“Brat,” he muttered.

“So’re you,” Steve countered before leaning up and kissing Bucky’s chin. “Where d’you think she gets it from? Oh, my God, that is _your_ sister, James Barnes.”

They bundled up in PJ pants and flannels and staggered downstairs holding hands, and Winifred looked up from the breakfast strata that she was pulling from the oven.

“Good grief, Steve. Your _hair_. You look like you slept up the whole bed!”

“Whole air mattress,” Bucky lied as he released Steve and went for the coffee. Becca snorted, and Bucky gave her a warning look.

“Shot first,” Steve muttered.

“Nag, nag,” Bucky muttered back, but his tone was fond. He gathered his insulin case and syringes and checked his sugar at the table while Steve helped bring over the rest of the food.

Breakfast started once George came down and had his camera charged, and he made his patented hot toddies with plain cocoa for Becca, who pouted at being deprived. Once the dishes were piled in the sink, they gathered around the tree, and Steve was the designated gift circulator. He began to read off the tags. “George, this says it’s from Uncle Earl. Here’s another one for you, it says ‘Dad,’ so that must be from Becca.”

“What gave me away?” Becca teased. Steve stuck his tongue out at her.

“Uh-oh, Becca, I don’t see any presents for you under the tree, kiddo. Better luck next year!”

“HEY!”

“Kidding. Sort of. This one’s for you.” He handed her a glittery purple gift bag, and she squealed and clapped.

“YAY!” She saw the Claire’s tags on it already, and Bucky grinned at him. “See?” he mouthed. Steve nodded and kept passing out presents.

“Hey, this one’s for me, from… Winifred. Thanks.”

“Just a little something,” she told him. A “little something” turned out to be a periwinkle blue, zippered polo sweater that matched his eyes. Steve immediately took off his flannel and put it on instead, and Bucky mentally praised his mother’s taste… and her eye for size. She’d gotten it a little small, and it hugged his torso in all of the right places.

They began to unwrap their gifts, and Bucky felt guilty that he hadn’t gotten Steve anything, but they had spent constant time in each other’s company, and he wasn’t able to break away to shop for a gift. Steve, though… he just looked content. Happy to be included and surrounded by family. Steve sat on the couch, and Bucky sat on the floor beside him. As the morning wore on, he leaned against Steve’s legs, touching him every time they laughed at George’s horrible jokes or Winifred when she jumbled her words after a second hot toddy. Steve tugged a lock of Bucky’s hair to get his attention, then patted the couch cushion next to him.

“Don’t sit down there. You’ll catch a draft.”

“Nag, nag…”

“You get cold easily,” Steve reminded him.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Stop,” he mouthed, but Steve’s grin was smug as Bucky sat down beside him, promptly shoulder-checking him. George snapped pictures of them, straightforward shots at first, until Becca photo-bombed them both, sprawling across them, making faces, and it all went downhill from there. Tickling, noogies, bunny ears behind each other’s heads, it was all fair game until Winifred told them to stop.

And if Bucky and Steve remained on the couch, legs pressed together, slumped together under a blanket while George put on their Red Box movies, nobody commented. He felt Steve’s pulse through his fingers where they were laced together under the blanket, and it was racing, just like his. Just like his.

*

“I’ve never eaten so much in my life.”

“The stuffing. I told you, Steve.”

“The apple crumble was the _bomb_.”

“See?”

“Oh, I see. I see myself not fitting into my pants when we head back to campus.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Rogers.”

They lumbered upstairs, yawning and stuffed to the gills. Becca turned in earlier than they had, since she had woke up right after Winifred to help with breakfast. George was still downstairs, enjoying a glass of wine with Winifred in front of the fireplace, watching the tree change colors and chatting softly because they were mushy that way. 

They changed back into their pajamas. “Should we blow up the air mattress?” Steve asked.

“Um. Let’s see. _No_.”

“Just a suggestion.”

“I suggest you brush those teeth, mister.” They brushed – and flossed – and turned off the lights. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed as he watched Steve shuck his socks and toss them onto the heap of his clothes. Steve approached him, smiling down at him in the dark. His silhouette was lined in streetlight coming in through the windows, and the blinking roof lights on his neighbor’s house were the backdrop for his tapered, beautiful body. Bucky spread his knees apart, and Steve stepped between them, tipped Bucky’s chin up with gentle fingers and kissed him. Bucky’s palms slid up around his narrow waist, and he sighed into the kiss, savoring it. They lingered there for a minute, just enjoying the silence and privacy of Bucky’s childhood bedroom. When the kiss broke, Bucky told him what was bothering him all night.

“I never got you a present, Stevie.”

“Yes, you did.” Bucky looked puzzled, shaking his head, but Steve kissed him again. “Look, I’ve been waiting all night to unwrap it.” He reached down and grabbed the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt, kissing Bucky’s cheek as he went, and Bucky smiled as he raised his arms. The shirt slid up and over his head, baring Bucky to Steve’s gaze. “And it’s just what I always wanted. You shouldn’t have, Buck.”

“I shouldn’t have, huh?” He accepted more kisses, the long, sweet line of them that Steve trailed down from his temple to his jaw. “When do I get to unwrap mine?”

“Now.”

“Then, _gimme._ ” Bucky hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of Steve’s pajama bottoms and tugged, letting them slide down into a flannel puddle. He leaned forward and kissed his stomach through his tee, then nipped it with his teeth. Steve shuddered at the feel of Bucky’s breath misting over his skin.

“God, Bucky…”

“Just what I wanted for Christmas, Stevie. You know me pretty well,” he said as he explored the contours of Steve’s thighs with his hands, breathing over the mound of Steve’s sex through his cotton boxers. Steve’s hands on Bucky’s shoulders tightened when he pulled down the boxers, too, and his erection jutted forward, bumping against Bucky’s searching, hot mouth. “You know me _so_ well…”

Steve’s hips jerked when Bucky’s mouth engulfed him, coddling him in his damp heat. Bucky hummed in pleasure at the feel and taste of him, and he gripped those long, beautiful, muscular thighs to balance him; the sound rattled through Steve, making his nerve endings sing. Bucky reached back and fisted Steve’s shirt hem up, baring his taut belly. Despite his claim about how full he was, Steve was sporting twelve-pack abs, and Bucky needed to see that body in all of its glory. Steve reached back with one arm and jerked his shirt the rest of the way off, whipping it across the room, and Bucky made pleased sounds at the sight of him. He was so beautiful, and it felt so right with his hips slowly thrusting himself into Bucky’s mouth, fingers tangled in his hair.

Within minutes, Bucky was stretched out beneath Steve, fully bare and straining for more. They stroked and tugged and kissed in a tangle of limbs, muffling each other’s moans and sighs. Steve rutted against Bucky, staring down into his face, so much passion in his eyes. He kissed Bucky with so much need and hunger that he almost missed his brief whisper.

“Lube,” he panted. “Top drawer.”

They fished out the tiny bottle, and Bucky heard brief flick of the cap and squirting sounds of liquid, but when Bucky waited for Steve’s fingers to ready him, he watched Steve kneel upright and reach behind himself, grunting slightly. “Wait? What’s up?”

“It’s been a while,” Steve told him. “I might be a little tight…”

“Stevie…”

“I just need a minute.”

“No. Let me.” Because there was no _way_ Bucky was going to miss out on the chance to prepare Steve, if he was offering him the chance to take him. Bucky sat up and kissed him, reaching for his arm. “Quit it. C’mere.”

“I can-“

“Uh-uh. Lay down.” Bucky followed Steve’s example from the morning before and rolled him to his back. “Like having you on your back, anyway, Steve. Look at you. So damned hot…” Steve chuckled as Bucky searched for a pillow to tuck under his hips, giving him a better view of his ass. Steve’s gorgeous thighs were splayed open wide, exposing supple cheeks and the shadowed, tiny indent. Bucky took the lube bottle and liberally coated his fingers. He wrapped his arm around Steve’s leg, kissing his knee and making Steve shiver.

“Hurry it up, Bucky.”

“Awwww, Stevie. Don’t want me to take my time?”

“No,” he hissed. “Just…oh. Do that.” His breath left him on a shuddering gasp.

“Feel so nice,” Bucky told him as he slid his finger inside, stroking his snug channel. “So good, Stevie.” His voice was like syrup. 

“ _Buck._

Bucky took his time, and he turned Steve into a moaning, sweating wreck, twisting the pillow beneath his head in an effort not to cry out too loud. Bucky watched his face strain and contort in the dark as he probed his heat, stretching and priming him with scissoring strokes. Steve was leaking, dribbling pearls of pre-cum from the tip of his engorged head, and Bucky bent down to taste him, and did _that_ ever make Steve crazy. He was so ready. He whimpered when Bucky withdrew his slick fingers and slid back from him. “Wait… where’re you going?”

“You’re coming with me,” Bucky promised, and he climbed all the way off the bed, then dragged Steve by the legs until his ass was at the edge of the mattress. “Bring that over here.”

“Bucky.” Then, “ _Bucky!_ ” Steve’s world went topsy-turvy when Bucky hoisted Steve’s legs over his shoulders, lined up their hips, and pushed himself inside Steve’s waiting heat. The air rushed out of Bucky’s lungs at the snug squeeze of Steve’s sweet hole, and his knees almost buckled from how good it felt.

“Good. S’good,” Bucky rasped. “So good, baby.” He worked himself inside, short, careful thrusts, leaning in to kiss Steve’s inner knee, swirling his tongue over his flesh. Beneath him, Steve was fisting the sheets, face slack with pleasure. “So good, Stevie.”

“Please, Bucky. Please, please…”

The angle meant less impact against the headboard, because that was something Bucky could _not_ afford while he was visiting home. If the way Steve was chanting his name, barely audible but still full of need, he approved of the angle, too. He deepened his thrusts and took both of them to a higher place. Bucky felt sweat running down his skin, making his lips taste salty. His view of Steve was perfect, abdomen rippled and taut from how he was bent, head thrown back into the pillows, eyes blown with lust, biting his rosy lower lip against crying out. 

The mattress still creaked a little, and they disengaged – with mute, hurt protests from Steve until he realized the destination – and moved to the floor. Bucky laid on his back and Steve mounted him, kissing him hungrily as he began to thrust himself down on Bucky’s cock. The view was even better from here, Bucky realized, with Steve’s hands planted on the floor outside of his ears. Steve was bringing himself down in perfect corkscrew motions, sheathing Bucky to the hilt with each shunt of his hips, and he felt his orgasm looming. He gripped Steve’s hips and tilted his face up to his desperate kisses. He stroked every straining muscle, clutched those thighs, mouthed and gasped his name so many times until he felt himself release. His eyes snapped open and his hips jerked up into Steve, and Steve leaned down and kissed him, devouring his cries as he kept thrusting down against him, milking the last of it from him and pushing himself to completion. A few more thrusts made Steve erupt, decorating Bucky’s chest and belly with his seed.

They were both panting, gasping and wrecked. Steve sagged into Bucky’s embrace. He was quivering and limp, hands shaking a little as he stroked Steve’s back. Bucky felt Steve shift above him and let him slip free from his depths, and the two of them stretched out on the floor, completely flush and intertwined. Steve’s pants were misting over Bucky’s chest; Bucky’s were stirring the tendrils of Steve’s hair.

“I can’t move,” Steve muttered. Bucky huffed a laugh, and both of them lay there, snickering and exchanging weak, satisfied kisses.

“I enjoyed my present, Stevie.”

“Stevie,” he muttered back, chuckling. “Again with the pet name.”  
“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Buck. I’m just gonna hafta come up with something equally mushy and sickening for _you_.” He yawned. “I liked my present, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I might have lied. There might be an epilogue, because this chapter is already THIRTY-SIX pages long, not quite done, and this still needs to be wrapped up. And of course, smut happened. I'm just the worst person in the world.


	7. Milestones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha’s spell was only the beginning. This is the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought the last chapter was the LAST CHAPTER. That didn’t happen, so here is the epilogue to help tie up the loose ends. I also made a HUGE goof in the continuity of this story. I said Bucky and his family were Jewish in the first chapter, yet they celebrated Christmas in the last one. And they ate pork tenderloin. Big oops on my part. My bad. But I’m not unhappy at the direction it took my story. I’m a sucker for Christmas stories and the “meet the parents” trope because I am complete and utter trash.
> 
> Thank you again for reading. It has been so much fun talking to you about it in the comments.

January, after intersession:

“Do you have everything?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Check the closets one more time, and the desk drawer,” Bucky reminded him. “You don’t want anyone to get a hold of your Copics or anything else that cost a grip.”

“I know!” Steve argued, rolling his eyes, because sometimes, Bucky Barnes could be just as much of a nag and a noodge as Steven Rogers.

“You don’t always keep track of your stuff, pal.” Bucky smirked.

“Kettle, meet pot,” Steve told him as he hefted the milk crate of his belongings. “Get the door, please.”

Bucky opened up the door to Sam’s – and now Riley’s, once again – dorm and let Steve out. They ran into Sam in the hallway, where he was chatting up a cute girl named Monica, elbow propping him against the wall as he gave her his patented, megawatt smile. “Hey,” Sam told them, “don’t forget to take out the trash while you’re at it!”

“Um, not my room anymore, not my trash,” Steve pointed out.

“Oh, it’s like that, Barnes?” Sam looked affronted. Bucky and Steve snickered.

Bruce gave Steve and Bucky a long-suffering look when they asked him to arrange a room switch again, but he took their request to the residence office and processed it that week, before the rest of the incoming spring transfers arrived. Steve rehung his art prints and his novels and compact discs lined the shelf above his desk once again. His cot was made up with the familiar blue sheets and plaid comforter, but now, they smelled like Bucky.

They didn’t have any classes together, but they were on more compatible schedules; Steve had two classes that started after noon, and Bucky had a Tuesday and Thursday science class and lab that began at nine AM, so Steve’s early mornings weren’t as much as a nuisance to him anymore. They shared meals and argued about Bucky’s coffee and energy drink habit and kept their dorm stocked with snacks. Steve kept “rescue” packets of Kool-Aid and Tang in his desk drawer, nagging Bucky not to drink them all so he would have some in an emergency. Left to his own devices, Bucky would raid the stash and guzzle it all.

Bucky went to fewer parties, but he began to drag Steve out to the occasional mixer to bring him out of his shell. They hung out with Logan, Tony and Clint, hovering in back yards and kitchens where they could hear themselves talk beyond the stereo speakers. Bucky’s arm would land around Steve’s shoulder, or Steve’s hand would linger at Bucky’s back. Laughter and affection shone in their eyes, blatant and a complete one-eighty from the semester before.

“Those two are sickening,” Brock muttered over the neck of his beer bottle.

“All of the fighting before must have been a courtship ritual,” Clint suggested, shrugging.

They would huddle on Bucky’s twin cot and watch Netflix on Steve’s laptop in the dark, the faint glow from the screen bathing their faces in soft light. Bucky would watch Steve draw to his heart’s content, occasionally rubbing his neck and shoulders when he had been at it too long, and it felt good to own that privilege of touching him, kissing him whenever he wanted. He couldn’t imagine being separated from Steve again, and he didn’t want to.

*

Three years later:

“It might be easier to just pay it online,” Bucky told Steve as he licked another bill envelope.

“I’m walking it to the drop box downtown. The electric bill is already five days late, Buck. This way, they know we paid it. I don’t want to put our bank information online, anyway.”

Bucky sighed. “I know, but now you have to wait for the check to clear the bank, Grandpa.”

“I know I paid it. That’s all that matters. Speaking of stuff that should have already been done, have you booked the hotel for your parents for graduation weekend?”

Bucky paused in washing the dishes and gave him a blank look. “Oh. Fuck.”

Steve sighed this time, plowing a hand through his hair in frustration. “Really, Bucky?”

“I’ve been busy! I got caught up!’

“We’ll never be able to book them anything this late, Buck.”

They had two more weeks until they both walked for their BA and BS degrees, and they had been scrambling for finals, preparing their vacation to Costa Rica, ordering passports, and sending out job applications on every lead they could find. Bucky didn’t want to spend a “gap year” at his parents’ house, because he wanted to be able to move himself and Steve into a nicer apartment in a less college-y neighborhood. He was tired of living in a complex right by the railroad tracks, watching freshmen strolling in chattering droves with red Solo cups in their hands toward the next kegger every weekend (or even every Thursday). Steve deserved better. He wanted a better start to their future together, but in the meantime, he felt scattered and disorganized. 

Bucky sat at their tiny dinette and leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing his face. He was exhausted and mad at himself and hated to fail in something important to them bo-

“Hey. Bucky. It’s okay.”

“This is important. They’re coming to see us walk, babe.”

“It’ll be fine. Look, we’ll do that today. We’ll look at a few bookings online, and if we don’t find anything, we can pick up an air mattress from Target. Or see if the resale store has a rollaway bed. We’ll figure out where to put your family, hon.” 

“Gads, yer a sap, Rogers.” Because Steve kept his promise that he would give Bucky saccharine, horrible pet names. Steve grinned and his large, warm hands settled over Bucky’s shoulders. He kissed the top of his hair, making Bucky sigh. “An air mattress, huh?”

Steve huffed. “Right. Like _that’s_ happening. Let’s check Craigslist for a futon, instead.”

“Hey, Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Sap.” Bucky leaned back toward Steve, who dipped his face down to kiss him soundly. “Love you, too, Buck.”

*

Six months later, Christmas night:

 

“Man, I’m stuffed.”

“Mom has some Tums in the bathroom cabinet, if you need them, baby,” Bucky told him.

“Might take you up on that. But that stuffing was amazing.”

“It’s a carefully guarded Barnes family recipe. Mom won’t tell.”

“Even though I’m technically family?” Steve looked hurt until Bucky poked him in the ribs.

“Cry baby. ‘Technically’ family. Listen to you. We’ve been living in sin for _how_ long now?”

“It was your idea to shack up, if memory serves, Barnes.”

“Sure, blame me.”

“Oh, I blame you for _everything_ , James Buchanan.” Bucky was unbuttoning his pants, but Steve came up behind him and took over the task, undoing buttons, zippers and cuffs, kissing the flesh that he bared with soft nips, making Bucky shudder with want.

“How’s that any different now than any other day?”

“You’re an easy scapegoat.”

“You’re a punk!”

“You’re the punk. I haven’t even gotten my Christmas present yet.”

Because that was a tradition now, too. They never put each other’s presents under the tree. They always waited until Christmas night, when they were alone together, to exchange gifts in Bucky’s old room, or in whichever hotel they stayed if they went out of town for the holiday. Becca and her favorite cousins were down in the basement recreation room in sleeping bags with sodas and snacks, despite the huge meal they’d just enjoyed, and George and Winifred went out to visit Bucky’s uncle at his assisted living complex to bring him some dinner and stay the night, so they had the hallway to themselves.

“Someone’s grabby. What’s all this about presents? I thought I was your present,” Bucky chided him. Steve ground himself against Bucky’s rump, and Bucky smirked at the hardness he felt, then leaned into the kisses Steve trailed down the side of his neck. He reached up and clutched the hair at Steve’s nape to hold him there, and he tilted his ass back against him in a tempting rhythm. “I thought my love was all the gift you ever needed.”

“Cheapskate.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Uh-uh. M’broke. Because I _did_ get you a gift.”

“When do I get it?” Steve husked as he nibbled Bucky’s earlobe, and he was making it hard for Bucky to keep his surprise under wraps.

“Less questions. Less clothes. Make with the naked.”

Bucky still enjoyed unwrapping Steve for Christmas. Every time. He lapped and nipped a trail down his chest and belly once he divested him of his shirt, and Bucky grinned at the Grinch printed boxers he’d gotten for him the Christmas before. He slid down to his knees and breathed over the mound poking out from the fabric. Bucky reached into the front flap and freed him. “Merry Christmas to _me…_

Steve huffed and groaned at the feel of Bucky taking him into his mouth, enjoying this vantage point where he could watch his lover work. His long, dark lashes looked like crescents fanned out above his high, firm cheekbones, and his rosy mouth was wrapped around his cock like a glove. Steve’s palms framed Bucky’s face. “So good to me…”

“Mmm-hmmmm,” Bucky hummed in agreement. His teasing gray eyes said _and don’t you forget it, pal_ before they shuttered. It felt like heaven in his mouth. Bucky finished him off in _minutes_ , despite Steve’s panting protests.

“No… no fair. Jerk.” They laid together on the bed, Steve on his back and Bucky curled against his side. “You played dirty.”

“You’re not mad.”

“I’m _not_. But _still_.”

“I just wanted you nice and relaxed so I could give you your present.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“Your _other_ present, then.” Bucky leaned up and kissed his jaw, evading Steve’s grasp to keep him there.

“You play dirty,” Steve grumbled. He watched Bucky rummaging through his duffle bag with a bleary smile. “That still wasn’t fair. I’m getting you back later tonight.”

“You’ll be out like a light in a few minutes. You love your beauty rest, Stevie.” Bucky teased. “So close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Close ‘em, Stevie.” Steve sighed raggedly.

“Jerk.”

“You love me, too.”

“I love you too. Hurry up.”

Bucky crept up to the bed with the gift tucked into his fist, and he knelt by the bedside. “Open them, Steven.”

“Steven? Now you’re getting fancy on me…” His voice trailed off as he stared down at his very naked, grinning boyfriend where he knelt – on one knee – with a small black, velvet box tucked into his palm. “Buck…” 

“Merry Christmas.”

“ _Bucky._ ”

“I love you, Stevie.” And his eyes were glistening, and Steve made a choked sound, and his hand flew up to cover his mouth.

“Oh, my God.”

“Please do me the honor of being my husband. Make an honest man outta me, Steven Grant Rogers.” He opened the box, and the thick, plain platinum band gleamed in the low lamplight. “I can’t live without you. I would never even try. I love you so goddamned much, Stevie. I want you in my family. And I want to have a family with you.”

“Oh, my God.” Bucky could tell he was still reeling, but his smile was watery and his eyes and nose were suddenly red, and his hand drifted down to his chest, like his heart was pounding.

“You’re gonna make a wonderful father, Stevie.” And heat pricked at Bucky’s eyes. “I know you will, and I’ll make you so happy if you say yes. We’re gonna make a beautiful home together. I’m gonna love you so hard, baby.”

“I know you will, James Buchanan. I love you.” His voice was a rough husk, and his hand was shaking as Bucky handed him the box. “Bucky…”

“Is that a yes?”

“Uh-huh. Yes. Yes, yes, it’s a yes. I love you. Yes, I’m going to marry you, Bucky.” His nod was emphatic, and Bucky’s heart felt ready to burst.

Steve got his second wind. Despite Bucky’s earlier assumptions about how quickly Steve would drift off, they lingered in the afterglow, content, complete.

“All I got you for Christmas was Knicks tickets,” Steve confessed.

*

One year later:

“I hate the smell of paint,” Bucky complained as he guided the roller over the master bedroom wall in neat strokes using the extender pole.

“I told you to put some vanilla extract in it. It curbs the smell,” Steve reminded him. “Make sure all of the windows are open so we can air it out.”

“I still think the cream would have been nice.”

“I like the green. It’s easy on the eyes. It’ll go well with everything else that we want to put in here.”

“At least it should hide the dirt,” Bucky agreed, even though he was still on the fence. But the more of the walls they got painted, the more the color began to grow on him. They had picked out soft neutral tones for the rest of the house. The realtor presented them with the keys three days ago, and Bucky was tired of moving, tired of packing and unpacking boxes, and most of their furniture was still in the garage while they painted, but it still felt so good to know that the house was _theirs_. No more upstairs neighbors. No more visitors parking in their parking space. No more sharing a laundry room. Bucky wasn’t crazy about the prospect of water and garbage bills, but he was still bursting with excitement, still reeling from the fact that he and Steve bought a _house_.

“We’re not that dirty,” Steve argued.

“Our kids might be,” Bucky pointed out.

“You’ve been talking about kids a lot, lately,” Steve mentioned. “Is your clock ticking, Bucky?”

“Pffft. Don’t act like you haven’t been thinking about it.”

“I _have_ been thinking about it. I just thought you’d wanna get a little more settled, first.”

They had both found jobs, Bucky with Stark International and Steve with a huge graphics firm, even though it was just an entry level position. It felt strange to play dress-up in jackets and ties and shoes that needed to be shined, acting like real adults. Registering and insuring two cars. Mowing the front and back lawns. Opening bills with both of their names on the statements. They had been joined at the hip and “shacked up” for so long, yet marriage had a different taste and feel to it. They still squabbled and got on each other’s nerves, but they were more deeply connected, more in tune with each other’s needs. And they were just so _grateful_. 

“We’ll get ‘settled.’ I’m just… I dunno. I just want to know more about what it entails. What steps to take.”

“Adoption?”

“That would be nice. But I was thinking… maybe we could consider a surrogate.”

That made Steve pause in his painting. “Surrogate. Wow. That’s… wow. Bucky!” Steve laughed in surprise. “You’re sure? Can’t that be complicated?” But Bucky could see the wheels turning in his head. He pressed forward.

“It’d be worth it, Stevie.” Bucky set down his paint roller on the drop cloth plastic. He closed the gap between them, took Steve’s roller and set it aside, and he kissed his husband with hunger, arms coiling around his waist. Steve sighed into it, wrapping his arms around his neck, and when they came up for air, Steve’s face was thoughtful.

“A surrogate.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I want a son or a daughter that looks just like you.” Bucky kissed him again. “With those beautiful blue eyes of yours.”

 

*

One year later, July 4th:

“One more push, Sharon. It’s okay, you’re doing great,” Steve coached as he held her hand in his comforting, strong grip. The blonde, gasping woman on the delivery bed was squatting halfway down, legs lifted and spread in stirrups. Bucky stood by, rubbing her back, feeling helpless and anxious and a little useless, scared but excited as the OB nurse moved about the room, preparing an infant scale, isolette, and a small, steel tray of instruments. Sharon’s gown was soaked in sweat and her face was red.

“I can do this, I know I can do this,” she insisted.

“We know you can too, sweetheart,” Steve crooned.

“You’re doing fantastic, Sharon. We’re almost there. I know it hurts, but you just have to push through it.”

“There’s another contraction, kiddo. It’s go time,” the nurse added as she read the monitor. “Your daughter wants to come out and say hello!”

“I’m trying… oh, God, ohGODohGOD…” Her moans were strained, gradually growing into a wailing cry as she pushed.

“Strong hands,” Steve muttered as she squeezed his fingers in a death grip.

“Man up, pal,” Bucky teased, but he was still scared to death. The doctor’s voice was encouraging, then pleased.

“Look, she’s coming down… there she is, you’re crowning, Sharon. Great job! I’ve got her. I’ve got her.” Sharon was sobbing and gasping as she pushed. “One more, and I’ll have the shoulders.”

“Is that… the head?” Bucky asked weakly.

“Uh-huh,” Steve confirmed, and his eyes were shining. “Bucky. She’s here. Sarah’s here.”

“Oh, God.” And Sharon gasped and sagged back slightly as the doctor pulled the baby free. Within seconds, they heard a loud, squalling cry. The three of them stared with wet eyes at the tiny, red-faced, puffy-eyed little girl who apparently had very healthy lungs. 

“She’s so pretty,” Sharon murmured in a croaky voice. “Oh, boys, that’s your daughter. That’s your sweet girl.”

“Thank you,” Bucky blurted, and he was sobbing unchecked as the doctor laid the baby on Sharon’s stomach. The nurse began to wipe Sarah off with towels, and Sharon reached down to rub her tiny back.

“She’s beautiful,” Steve whispered.

“Of course she is,” Bucky wept, touching her tiny cheek with his fingertip. The baby’s cries were dwindling down to shaky little hiccups and she was trying to look toward the sound of their voices, already familiar. “That’s your little girl, Steve. That’s Sarah.”

“Sarah Barnes-Rogers,” Sharon assured them. The nurse slipped a little knit hat onto her head.

“That’s a lovely name. Congratulations.”

Bucky took turns holding her for a minute while the nurse prepared to weigh her and take her vitals.

“Twelve on the dot,” Steve mused. “Right on time.”

“She has a thing about being punctual,” Bucky told him. “Just like her father. Just like her Type A, pain-in-the-ass father.”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“Can you believe the mushy sweet talk from these two?” Sharon teased, and the nurse laughed, nodding in agreement.

*

Two years later:

“I thought being married meant you never had to be a groomsman in anyone else’s wedding again,” Bucky complained as he took off his dress shoes.

“That’s only true when you’re a bridesmaid,” Steve corrected him. “I think.”

“Well, they need to change the rules.”

“We owed it to Clint to stand up with him,” Steve reminded him. “He was our best man.”

“Your best man,” Bucky corrected him. “Nat was mine.”

“Ah. Right.” Because that was how Nat wanted to be designated when they tied the knot. “She looked beautiful.”

“She wasn’t showing much,” Steve remarked. “I still don’t get how she managed to train her cat to walk down the aisle.”

“Liho’s smarter than most people we know.”

“Did you give Sarah her dose of Tylenol?” Their daughter was cutting molars and often woke them up from a dead sleep screaming in the middle of the night.

“Yup. She’s out.” She provided them with a lot of entertainment at the reception, running around and clapping her hands on the dance floor during Clint and Natasha’s first one as man and wife. Natasha asked Steve “Are you sure she isn’t really Bucky’s, Steve? Because upstaging the bride seems like something a child of _his_ would do.”

“She _is_ a child of mine, madam,” Bucky said, puffing up. Steve laced their fingers together and kissed him. Clint made gagging noises.

“You two are so sickening. Go. Do that at home.”

And that fit right into their plans for the night. Steve and Bucky stripped down to their boxers and settled down between crisp, cool sheets and turned out the lights. Just as they reached for each other and shared what should have been the first of many kisses, Bucky’s cell phone rang. “Who the heck is that?” Bucky murmured. Steve huffed with exasperation.

“Hope it isn’t anyone wanting a ride home from the reception,” Steve said. He squinted down at the smartphone screen and slid to answer the call. “Hello? Sharon?”

Bucky sat up in bed, eyes round.

“You’re what?”

“What? What’s going on?”

“Get dressed,” Steve told him as he turned back to the call. “She’s having contractions. Honey, how apart are they? Okay. Eight minutes, give or take. It could be a while. Okay. We’ll be there.”

Before Steve even rang off, Bucky had thrown back the covers and launched himself out of bed. He beelined to the closet and yanked a pair of clean jeans off the hanger.

“Yup. Uh-huh. I just told Bucky. He’s wigging out.” Steve chuckled.

“Am not.”

“He is too wigging out. Okay, baby. See you soon.”

Bucky threw a pair of Steve’s jeans at him. “Get dressed. I’ll take Sarah to my mom’s.”

*

Winnie was a stubborn baby.

Despite Sharon’s active contractions, she was only sixty percent effaced after ten hours and at four centimeters. It was already dawn. They watched the hospital’s limited cable selections and listened to the thump of the fetal monitor. Bucky rubbed Sharon’s feet. Steve held her hand, murmuring encouragement.

“I thought this was supposed to be easier the second time,” Sharon grumbled.

“So she’s stubborn,” Bucky said. “The accommodations are so nice that she doesn’t want to sign off of the lease.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Sharon deadpanned, giving him a dirty look. Steve chuckled.

“You’ve got this.”

Their doctor walked in with his clipboard, smiling benevolently. “Okay. New plan. I’m thinking we turn down your epidural a notch. I’m thinking Pitocin drip to speed up those contractions and get you a little more dilated. Whaddya say?”

“Oh, God,” Sharon groaned. “He said the ‘p’ word.”

“Does that mean things are about to get more uncomfortable for Sharon?” Bucky asked, his heart in this throat. It was hard watching Sharon’s suffering and efforts during the first delivery. This one was going more smoothly thanks to the epidural block, but he nearly fainted when the anesthetist inserted the needle.

“Ohhhh, yes. But we might greet your daughter by dinner time.” His voice was hopeful. Sharon sighed, considering it. Then she nodded.

“Boys, this might get ugly,” Sharon warned them.

*

She wasn’t kidding.

“I need to stand…up… my back is on fire,” Sharon moaned. “Oh, God… it _hurts_ …”

“Breathe, Sharon, it’s okay, baby,” Bucky encouraged.

“Oh, GOD! Neither of you ever even TOUCHED me, and I HATE YOU!”

“That’s the Pitocin talking,” Steve offered, but Bucky still winced, feeling his eyes spark. Childbirth didn’t get easier with repetition. He was tired, Steve had bags under his eyes, and poor Sharon was railing and straining on the delivery bed, hair soaked in sweat and sagging loose from her ponytail. Steve waited for her to sag back after she finished another contraction, then felt her tense up again when it spiked on the monitor again. 

“Her little heart’s beating so fast,” Bucky murmured. “Is that normal?”

“She’s not in distress, James. She’s doing fine. I know it gets a little nerve wracking.”

Yet Steve was calm and grounded, focused on Sharon and her progress. “You’ve got this.”

“I don’t feel like I do. God, it hurts. I just want her here,” Sharon sobbed. “I want you to see your daughter.” Her features twisted, and she pursed her lips, going into the third phase of her breathing. Steve and Bucky fell into the same rhythm.

“We wouldn’t be here without you,” Bucky told her. His voice was hoarse and full of emotion. “Okay? I want you to know that, Sharon. We couldn’t do this without you. Sarah’s perfect. Steve and I love that little girl so much, and she wouldn’t be here without you. I’m so glad you said you would do this again, okay?”

“Steve, he’s getting mushy again,” Sharon groaned, but she indulged him with a weak smile.

“Big tough guy,” Steve countered.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Bucky huffed, and he rubbed his drooping eyes, not caring that they were wet.

“Hug your husband, Rogers.”

“I’m fine, I…” His throat felt full and hot and his eyes burned, and Steve was there, around the other side of the bed in a moment. His husband smelled like cheap cafeteria coffee and the remnants of his aftershave, and Bucky closed his eyes as he leaned into his warm bulk. “I’m okay.”

“You’re gonna get to hold her, baby. It’ll be okay. She’ll be here, and Sarah will have a baby sister.”

“She’s taking her swee-eeee—eee… “ Sharon’s words were cut off by another contraction, a triple this time, that rose in intensity, tapered off, then crested again. She writhed and abandoned her breathing in favor of a hoarse shriek.

“I have to check her,” the nurse told them. Bucky and Steve backed away from the bed while Sharon was examined. “We’re in business. Nine centimeters, she’s effaced… okay. I’ll call the doctor! It’s time to meet Winnifred!”

Half an hour later, Steve was capturing the first moment that Bucky held his younger daughter, a cranky, chubby girl with his dark waves of hair on his camera phone. 

His voice was watery and overwhelmed. “Hi. Hi, sweetheart. I’m the one who’s been singing you the alphabet. Hope you’re not sick of it yet.”

When he glanced up at Steve, his husband gave him the most radiant smile. “This one’s gonna be the troublemaker, isn’t she?” he mused.

“She’s got a nine-month track record, believe me,” Sharon agreed weakly. “I should have bought stock in Tums. I’d be a rich woman by now.”

*

Three years later:

Bucky’s fingers felt cold and numb, one of the first sensations he experienced as his brain came back online. He woke up without an alarm, slowly, hearing his own breathing change, and he felt his neck cramp with a slight crick. He flexed his fingers, then gradually extended the movement to his arm, which was tucked beneath his pillow, typical of when he slept on his side. He yawned gustily, hearing his jaw click, smacking his chapped lips. He wasn’t ready to function yet. The bed was so yielding and warm. The covers were heavy and thick, and he was just starting to sweat.

The arm looped around his waist jerked, fingers spasming from too little circulation, prodding Bucky fully awake. “Nnnngghh…” His tongue tasted pasty. He wriggled back against the solid body curved flush with his. Hot breath misted over his nape, and Bucky groaned in contentment. This was nice.

“S’your turn t’make coffee,” a sleepy baritone informed him.

A slow smile spread across Bucky’s face, even though he hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He sighed and wriggled his hips again, feeling something hard protruding against his rump.

“Someone’s already awake,” he countered. “I call first one with a hard-on has to make coffee.”

“No fair,” Steve argued, and he took that as a challenge, beginning to grind against Bucky, warm lips moving over his neck. “First one, huh?” Bucky felt his husband’s hand drift lower, and he huffed a laugh. “YOU get to make the coffee.”

“You play dirty, Steven Grant.”

“What? You’re wide awake, James Buchanan. Rise and shine…” His voice was a rich husk as he gripped him, kneading him more firmly and pulling needy sounds from him. Bucky let his thighs fall slack, spreading them, giving his husband better access. Steve’s talented fingers slipped beneath his waistband. “Rise and _shine_.”

“Jerk,” Bucky hissed. “Fine, then… I’ll make the damned coffee.”

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> I know NOTHING about witchcraft.


End file.
